FW 1942: Make Do and Mend
by Wolseley37
Summary: Autumn of 1942. Foyle takes on a complex, dangerous investigation away from Hastings, and Sam solves a rather more personal mystery as well.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** FW 1942: Make Do and Mend

**Rating:** General

**Content:** Christopher Foyle and Sam Stewart

**Summary:** _This story follows after the episode "Bad Blood." Foyle takes on a complex, dangerous investigation away from Hastings, and Sam solves a rather more personal mystery as well. It is the autumn of 1942. After Sam has recovered from the Anthrax exposure she returns to work. With regard to the American GI, Joe Farnetti, she has let him down gently and they've parted on friendly terms._

**Disclaimer:** The characters in Foyle's War were created by Anthony Horowitz. No infringement is intended.

**Note:** There is a glaring error in the time-frame of this story: In canon, Rosalind's death occurred in February of 1932, not in the autumn as I have written. I beg your indulgence in letting it stand; the story doesn't work with the error corrected.

**A/N:** This story was originally posted from May to July 2006 on the 'Nothing-Fancy' FWFF Forum. It can also be found on the Quietly Enigmatic Forum in the FWFF section.

* * *

Chapter 1

DCS Christopher Foyle watched through a gap in the blackout curtains of his darkened office as the Wolseley motor, headlights hooded, pulled up in front of the station. It was six in the morning and not yet light. Before turning away to gather up his travelling case and briefcase of documents he paused to observe his young driver push open the car door, climb out and make her way into the building. A frown creased his brow as he confirmed what he feared – she had not yet regained her full health – there was not the usual youthful spring with which she generally bounded up the steps.

He was reluctant to make use of her so soon after her illness, yet he also knew that her self-confidence required that she be put to work. If he had insisted that she stay behind while he undertook this case far from Hastings, it would seem to make his words to her in the hospital a lie.

She had recently seen herself at a crossroads – one of those moments in life when an opportunity, a choice, can alter one's entire future – and she had chosen to stay on her present course. He was not privy to her reasons for rejecting the handsome young American. But to make her decision she had needed a reassurance, a commitment, it seemed, from him. And he had readily given it to her, assured her that her work was important, that she was a valuable member of the team.

In fact the word he had used was 'invaluable.' Afterwards, alone at home, he had thought about his choice of that word. Was it mere kindness, reassuring a seriously ill and frightened young girl? Or was the word rather more accurate than he had understood?

Seeing her lying in that hospital bed, in the familiar plain gown of the invalid, had brought sharply back to him painful memories long suppressed. During his wife's last days he had sat with Rosalind, stroked her hair, held her in his arms and given her every reassurance she needed to hear, while he watched helplessly as the bright light of her spirit faded, and then went out. Although he had hidden his feelings regarding Sam's illness behind his accustomed mask of detachment, inside he had been deeply distressed by the returning flood of emotions – fear, anger, profound sadness and guilt.

He had used the anger and acted quickly, decisively to find the cause of her sickness, demand the streptomycin and place it in the hands of her doctor. He thanked god it had worked – if Sam had died… if he had been responsible for her exposure to such danger - for the death of Rev. Iain Stewart's only child - he was quite certain that he truly could_ not_ have gone anywhere; that he would have resigned his position, packed up his career and ended it all. But she had lived, had begun to regain strength and vitality, and he was grateful that she had been spared.

Then she had asked him if she was valuable to the team.

While he knew very well that she was young, inexperienced, untrained, and with a personal background that did not predispose her for police work, still he found her occasional insights and observations – not to mention her decisiveness when action was needed – both surprising and helpful. But there was more to it than that – he had come to enjoy her company; she lifted his spirits, lightened his moods, and renewed his energy for his work. In that respect he did not know how to measure her value to him, and he suspected that it was not a question he should allow himself to dwell on.

No, she was a reasonably good driver, easy to talk out his theories with, and useful: like Milner – another pair of hands and eyes. That was the_ proper_ estimation of her value to the team and she should be happy with it – after all, there was a war on and none of us were doing quite what we wished to be doing.

And in any case, he needed a driver for this journey. Train travel had become inconvenient if not impossible with all the crowding and disruptions. He had applied for the additional petrol and his requisition had been approved.

With a determined set to his jaw he picked up his hat and his bags and walked out to the corridor where Sam was approaching to fetch him. Before she caught sight of him he noted the small frown on her generally untroubled brow, but when she looked up she smiled and the line faded behind the light in her eyes.

_'Probably just forgot to pack something,'_ he told himself and dismissed it.

"Morning, Sam. All set?" he asked. "Let's get on with it, then; it's a long journey."

As he brushed past her with a purposeful stride his eye fell upon the latest War Office poster dutifully tacked on the wall by Sergeant Brooke.

_'Is this trip necessary?'_

Foyle ignored the vague discomfort inspired by the question and made his way out to the car, Sam following.

Uncharacteristically, he opened the rear door, climbed in, laid his briefcase and overcoat on the seat beside him and tossed his bag onto the floor. Sam got into the driver's seat without comment, started up the motor and pulled out into the road. Once underway, Foyle saw her eyes dart to the rear-view mirror several times, but she held off asking him the obvious question. He knew he was not being considerate, but it irritated him to think he should explain – why should he have to explain his choice?

As they passed the town limits and headed out into the countryside a cold, pale sunrise provided enough light to begin his work. He opened his briefcase, pulled out the top file and began to read the documents that had been sent to him by Chief Constable Cecil James of Birmingham.

The case was of a type he found particularly absorbing – the homicide of a police constable in connection with suspected corruption in one of the northern police forces. Chief James had wanted a London investigator, but as the central department was over-taxed just now, the Assistant Commissioner had suggested Foyle as an alternative. James had agreed, and he had accepted the assignment.

However, he had another reason for accepting it so readily, a personal reason: it would take him away from Hastings for a week or more, and at the present time he badly wanted to be away. The tenth anniversary of his wife's death was nearing; he knew Andrew was unlikely to get leave, and he feared he was quite capable, this year, of sinking below mere depression into something contemptible – of drinking too much and wallowing in his loss. Sam's illness had had the effect of opening the old wound afresh and he did not think he could bear up in the familiar surroundings. Far better to get away and immerse himself in a challenging investigation: the date would pass and he would carry on afterwards as he always had done.

For the next few hours he read and made notes on the case, glancing out the windows now and then to check on their progress. He was relieved that Sam had taken the cue and not tried to engage him in conversation; he was also relieved she had not started on those inconsequential remarks upon any little passing thing that happened to catch her eye.

Very professional; he might commend her on it when they stopped for lunch.

* * *

That morning Sam Stewart had woken groggy and tired five minutes before the bedside alarm clock was set to ring. She had slept badly, disturbed by racing doubts about her decision to turn down Joe Farnetti's proposal. She knew she had made the right decision, she knew she couldn't possibly commit herself to someone she had only just met and shared a few laughs with – but these _were_ strange times, and who could tell what the future might hold? The war had taken away all the normal expectations for a girl in England.

The boys she would have known had gone away to fight and, many of them, to die. Instead there were all these new chances to meet strange and interesting men from far away – Canadians, Americans, Poles, Australians – each one of which offered potentially a very different life in a new and interesting place. Times were so unsettled, at times so bleak, and so unpredictable, it seemed foolish to turn down any chance of happiness – and yet, no, she simply wasn't _that_ impulsive a person. It didn't feel right in her heart and somehow - call it cowardice or a lack of adventurousness - somehow she felt sure she wanted to remain in Hastings and do the work that she'd been given to do.

So she had finally fallen back to sleep, mostly content, but with a niggling sense of self- reproach in the back of her mind.

Now her head felt heavy on the pillow, but it was only when the alarm jangled and she moved to silence it that she recognized the familiar pulsing throb of a migraine coming on. It had been a long time since she'd woken with a headache – years it seemed. Well, it must be an after-effect of the Anthrax exposure. Surely it will fade after she sets to work, she told herself. There was the long drive north today, possibly several days' work around the West Midlands, and she _couldn't_ miss it. Besides, she recalled with a little glow of happiness, Mr. Foyle had said she was 'invaluable' to the team, and she wouldn't let him down for the world.

As she washed and dressed and put the last few items into her travel case she thought about how important Mr. Foyle had become to her, what he represented in her life. He wasn't a father figure – her own father still filled that role, and was likely to continue in it for many years to come, thank-you very much – and he wasn't just a boss or a superior because he really seemed to value her opinion on things, to encourage her to learn and to think.

But beyond that he had come to occupy a very central place in her world; with his calm, deeply thoughtful manner and his unassailable integrity, he was an anchor that held her safe in turbulent seas; he made it possible for this war-torn life to make some sense. She puzzled over this realisation as she stood in front of the mirror pinning up her hair. She also had learned a lot from Mr. Foyle about police work and investigation, and he seemed pleased with her interest and her efforts. Perhaps she might think of herself as a sort of apprentice, then. The idea made her smile.

However, she admitted to her reflection, he _could_ be a little short-tempered when her enthusiasm carried her away. And she knew as well, from a conversation with Andrew, that autumn was a difficult season for him because his wife had died at this time of the year.

Settling the regulation MTC cap firmly on her head and tucking a few wayward strands under, she resolved that she would try to be more professional, less talkative, and watch for his cues as to when her comments might be welcome.

If only this tiresome headache hadn't started.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

**Historical note:** Petrol (gas) rationing for vehicles was introduced in the UK in September 1939, with petrol ration books in effect on Sept. 16th.

From The Daily Telegraph, Sept. 8, 1939:

_Persons requiring more than the minimum ration represented by the books should apply to the Divisional Petroleum Officer for the area which the petrol is required. The names and addresses of these will be issued in a day or two._

_A form of application for those who want motor spirit for stationary engines and purposes other than for use in road or agricultural vehicles is also to be had at post offices._

_Commercial vehicle operators will also be unable to obtain motor spirit after Sept. 16 except on rations. They will get supplies through their group organisers._

* * *

Chapter 2

DCS Foyle closed up the file he had been reading, tucked his pencil into his notebook and tossed both items into his briefcase and closed it. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyelids and sighed with fatigue. At least he was spared the necessity of reading glasses, he mused. A glance at his watch told him it was only eleven o'clock – too early to stop for lunch. He took up the flask of water he'd stowed in his bag and, remembering his manners, proffered it to Sam. She declined; he swallowed a mouthful and turned his gaze out over the rolling verdant countryside. They had made good progress and he estimated only another three or so hours driving time to their destination. With just one break they should arrive easily by four in the afternoon, well before sunset.

His gaze flicked over to the rear-view mirror where he saw the reflection of Sam's eyes, narrowed under contracted brows, focussed on the road ahead. He thought she looked tired. They had hardly exchanged a word all morning and yet somehow, today, he felt more comfortable in silence.

They stopped to eat in a little village, raising unwanted attention and curiosity amongst the residents as few civilian - or rather, non-military - cars had been seen driving the local roads in some months. Sam was subdued and ate very little, pleading a slight headache. Foyle had reluctantly offered to delay an hour so that she could rest, but, to his relief, she had declined and soon they were back on the road. He had accepted her reasoning that a longer rest once they had reached their destination was better than a short one with the journey still to complete, so he thought no more about it, and retrieved another file from his briefcase.

They traveled on for another hour in silence, he reading and she observing the gentle farmland give way to a craggy, hilly landscape. They were forced to detour onto a secondary road for several miles; then there was a tedious delay when they were overtaken by a convoy of military vehicles whose progress took priority, and they had to pull over and wait. Foyle got out to stretch his legs and to observe the parade, but Sam remained behind the wheel. He noticed that she massaged her temples with her fingers, and he felt a passing regret for not having insisted that they stop for an hour. But he wouldn't mention it to her lest it sound like a criticism of her judgement – and he didn't want to undermine her confidence so soon after her illness.

Finally the last lorry trundled by; he climbed into the rear seat again and Sam started the motor and followed at a distance. The road wound its way north over several county borders. Foyle, slouching casually in the seat as he read, began to find the regular oscillation of the tyres over the macadam rather lulling and had to force his eyes to focus on the typewritten words. He was a half-page from giving it up as a bad job when the car suddenly, sharply veered left off the road to the sound of rapidly down-shifting gears. Sam's voice choked out hurriedly,

"Sorry, sir; got to stop –."

Before he could react she braked hard and he was thrown forward – his knees hit the seat-back, papers flew out of his hand and the briefcase slammed against his leg. When he had righted himself and looked about, he saw the driver's door flung wide – and his driver stumbling away into the wood, clearly about to be violently ill.

Foyle rapidly reviewed the day's events in his mind and he found his own conduct wanting. He snatched up his flask of water, climbed out of the car and strode towards the trees, berating himself.

_'How could he have ignored her fatigue? How could he have disregarded his responsibility to her, retreating behind a wall of professional aloofness? Did he honestly think Rosalind would have approved of his behaviour, allowing his young subordinate to suffer, just so he might avoid discomfort over his feelings–?'_

The idea brought him up short and he stopped in his tracks.

'_For Sam?_ No, he wouldn't allow himself to think of it –. _Why, she might have been his daughter-in-law if Andrew had –! No, he mustn't imagine that feelings of sympathy inspired by her illness could be anything more. It was completely inappropriate. He was her boss, a man in a position of authority over a young woman...'_

But that didn't license this cold and irresponsible indifference to her well-being.

Twenty yards off he heard the distinct sounds of retching. He walked on in the direction from which they originated. Foyle caught sight of her, bent forward, supporting herself with an arm around a birch. As he approached she straightened and then slumped against the tree. He unscrewed the top of the flask to pour water liberally over his handkerchief, and held it out to her discreetly from behind. He watched as she pulled off her leather driving gauntlet and pressed the cold cloth to her forehead, eyes and mouth; he could plainly see her hand shaking from the ordeal. She turned slightly towards him and he gave her the flask, she rinsed and spit delicately onto the grass, then took several tentative sips.

After a few deep breaths she faced him with a weak smile and began to apologise, but he hushed her, took her arm and led her back towards a low stone wall where they sat together. He had never seen her so pale, not even in hospital, and he saw that she shivered as she drank from the flask.

"Sorry, Sam. I didn't realise you were ill." He removed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders; she gave him a grateful glance, and said shakily,

"You needn't look so worried, sir – I'll be alright now; it was just migraine. I haven't had one in ages."

"It's gone, then? Feel better?"

"Yes, that's how they seem to go – it's blinding for several hours until I'm (she waved her hand towards the birch) – and then after it just fades away."

She held the handkerchief to her forehead.

"Mmh, I know how they are; my… my wife used to suffer from them when she was your age. They stopped after–, when she was a little older."

He had been about to say, 'after Andrew came,' but checked himself, whether to save her the painful association or to save himself the plain evidence of his greater age, he wasn't precisely sure at that moment.

"Oh, that's good to know – that I might not have them always."

"Well, as a matter of fact, I think we found what caused them."

"Did you? What was it?"

He gave her a sympathetic look as though about to deliver bad news and she frowned quizzically.

"What was it? Tell me, sir"

"Chocolate."

"Chocolate?"

"Unh-huh. Have you . . . had any chocolate recently, Sam?"

She turned away with a blush that brought a welcome hint of colour to her cheeks, and a dawning light of understanding came over her features.

"That must be it! I've hardly had chocolate at all since the start of the war; _and_ I haven't had migraine either. But then Joe brought me –." Her voice trailed off in embarrassment.

Foyle cleared his throat.

"Well, the rationing's good for something, at least: less chance of migraines."

Sam regarded him sceptically for a moment, and then she broke into a slow grin. He returned a half-smile and she bumped her shoulder gently against his to acknowledge the joke. Foyle found the gesture both charming and a little too informal, almost intimate; he felt he was losing his footing in this balancing act between kindness and appropriate disinterest. She must have seen something of his thoughts because her eyes clouded and she looked down before saying tentatively,

"You know, sir, I'm really very grateful that I was assigned to be your driver. I'm learning a lot, seeing how you work and – well – even if I never do anything _officially_ for the police, I know I will have picked up some very valuable, and useful, sort of experience. I . . . just wanted to say that."

Foyle shifted his weight and gazed off towards the trees. He disliked being thanked in a case like this where he felt he hadn't actively done anything to deserve it. He wasn't sure how to respond, and he was surprised when Sam continued,

"And … I'm sorry I messed about at the farm and – well, it must have been distressing for you to come into the hospital. Painful memories, I imagine."

Foyle went very still.

_How did she know – how had she even come to think of it? – and why did she tell him she understood what he had been feeling? He didn't want her thinking about him in that way. It wasn't right._

He stood, took a step or two away, and stared at a particularly fascinating laburnum.

"If you're up to it, we should go. Don't want to be on the road at dusk." He turned slightly in her direction so as not to appear entirely rude.

Sam winced in dismay,

"I-I've offended you; I'm sorry."

Foyle took in a breath and shut his eyes in exasperation and some degree of remorse. He sat down again, pressing his palms against the cold stone.

"No. You haven't, Sam. Simply that I don't–. Not something you should concern yourself with. All right?" His voice was a little more emphatic than he had intended. He tried again, quietly, and looked at her.

"All right?"

Maybe it was because she had just recovered from a serious illness and was feeling overly resolute; maybe it was because she had come to realise that working with him, being a part of his world, really meant more to her than the chance of a new life with an exciting stranger. For whatever reason, Sam returned his look steadily, calmly and held his gaze and refused to let him look away.

She hadn't formulated a plan; she had no set intention, and she didn't expect anything from him; she just... wanted him to know that she cared, that she was concerned for him – how could that be wrong? There was a bloody war on, people's lives were being torn to bits – surely some honest compassion could be expressed?

But his reserved, closed look never wavered, and she lowered her eyes, but at the same time she covered his hand with her own. Foyle looked down at their hands, his lips compressed in a thin, straight line; he revealed no further response.

"All right, sir." Her voice came out stronger than she felt. She turned to pick up the flask and the damp cloth.

"Thanks. I'll clean these before I return them to you."

She rose, gave him a small smile, and walked away towards the waiting car.

Foyle stared at his shoes and bit the inside of his cheek; her eyes had unsettled him and he wasn't certain he had acquitted himself well in the exchange. Could they continue on their journey as things stood? Did something more need to be said? He felt strangely chilled and looked up to watch Sam walk away in the dappled sunlight under the trees, wearing his jacket over her uniform.

He gave a little grunt of realisation.

Perhaps that was it – she felt drawn towards a man in civilian clothes, some vestige of a normal, safe, stable life. Perhaps if he were in uniform he'd just blend in and she wouldn't – what? – What did he imagine this young woman's feelings were towards him? Foyle's hand crept up to rest over the knot of his necktie, his fingers reaching just inside the top of his waistcoat. Whatever they were, it didn't bear thinking on.

He rose from his seat and followed slowly to the car. The engine was already purring. After an imperceptible hesitation he pulled open the front passenger door and got in to his usual place beside her. He glanced into the back seat and noticed that she had recovered the loose papers and briefcase from the floor, set his overcoat and hat on the rear seat again, and had laid his jacket over top.

Then he saw the gleam of amusement in her expression, which she was endeavouring to hide.

He raised an eyebrow,

"Do give me a moment's warning next time you intend to stand the car on its front wheels, won't you, Sam?"

"Certainly, sir."

With a quick nod and a glance in her side mirror she put the car in gear and pulled onto the road.

The remainder of the journey was comparatively uneventful. Good navigation and somewhat increased speed allowed them to reach their destination a mere three-quarters of an hour behind schedule.

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

**Historical note: **

Between August 1940 and April 1943, the German Luftwaffe dropped 1,852 tons of bombs on Birmingham, making it the third most heavily bombed city in the United Kingdom. 12,391 houses, 302 factories and 239 other buildings were destroyed, with many more damaged.

(From Wikipedia)

* * *

Chapter 3

They drove the last miles through checkpoints and roadblocks and streets broken with ragged potholes big enough to swallow a pram, and piles of debris from bombed buildings, the rows of collapsed ones punctuated by the remaining tall, seemingly untouched structures.

The devastation was far beyond what had been reported by official sources, and as they passed further into the centre of the city, Foyle and his driver grew pensive, then sober and finally quite grim. There was an abundance of Home Guard and ARP Wardens about the streets. Overhead, like a vast flock of gigantic nodding sheep, floated hundreds of barrage balloons. Birmingham was paying a high price for its importance as a vital industrial manufacturing centre.

At the hotel on Hagley Road, a red brick Victorian building standing in its own grounds, they were welcomed by a young man with one empty sleeve pinned up. He examined their identification and gave them instructions and directions in the event of an air raid, and ascertained that they had their gas-masks.

Foyle couldn't help noticing, as they were shown to their rooms, how quickly the clerk's cool, official manner began to thaw in the bright warmth of Sam's friendly conversation. From within his own rooms he overheard the man at her door, speaking with a smile in his voice,

"Welcome to Brum, Miss Stewart. Don't hesitate to call on me for anything."

Foyle took his shaving kit down the hall and a short time later returned looking as fresh as if he had just left his own house. After she was settled, Sam came to hear her instructions for the afternoon, but Foyle insisted that his young driver remain behind and rest; he'd walk the few blocks to the location of his initial meeting with Chief Constable Cecil James.

"Are you quite sure, sir? I'm feeling well enough now."

"No, no. I expect you'll be of much more use to me tomorrow, well-rested, than tonight in your… fragile condition." He chided in an attempt at an avuncular manner.

"Fragile? Hardly, sir."

She protested half-seriously, but was really rather relieved that she could stay behind, luxuriate in a hot bath, and slide between crisp, clean sheets. It had been a long and tiring drive. To assuage her guilt over these sybaritic longings, she fussed around him officiously.

Foyle already gripped his briefcase in one hand and had taken up his hat to go.

"You have your luminous arm-band, sir?"

"Yes, in my pocket."

"It has to be exposed to the daylight. Here, let me fix it on."

With some impatience and a twist of his lips, Foyle set down his hat and handed her the white band. She fitted it onto the upper arm of his coat sleeve.

"Thank-you."

He picked up his hat and made for the door.

"Have you your Number 8 torch, sir?"

Foyle stopped, sighed and turned back.

"N-no."

Sam fetched it from the writing desk; he put down his hat again to open the briefcase, and she placed the torch carefully in the bottom.

"Thank-you, Sam."

Before he could take a step away she asked,

"You'll walk facing the traffic?"

"Sam!"

"It's a very big place, sir. Very busy. A lot more vehicles than we're used to, and the whole city in full Blackout. What would I do if you fell under a bus?"

"Drive back to Hastings, I expect."

Snatching up his hat, he turned abruptly and walked out of the room.

It was only after his footfalls had faded down the stairs that she spied the forgotten gas-mask box. She heaved a weary sigh, feeling rather like an exasperated mother over her heedless, headstrong boy.

Sam declined the temptations of the dining room; she wasn't in the least bit hungry as yet, but looked forward to a decent breakfast. After her lovely hot bath - albeit a shallow one, with the water restricted to the 'reverse plimsoll line' - she sat up in her dressing gown, listening to the wireless and studying maps of the city and outlying areas.

By half-past nine she had given up on Mr. Foyle, whom she had expected to brief her on her duties for the next day, and at last had climbed into bed and put out the lamp.

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

In the morning she felt fit and ready for anything; she dressed quickly, tidied her room and waited. At eight she ventured out into the hallway, paused outside his room to listen, and tapped on the door. There was no response, no sound from within. For a few minutes she loitered about, expecting to see him emerge from the bathroom, then made her way downstairs to the dining room. He wasn't there, so she stopped at the front desk. The same clerk from yesterday greeted her pleasantly.

"Excuse me, Mr. McKay, but have you seen Mr. Foyle this morning?"

"I haven't, Miss Stewart."

"He doesn't answer at his room. I don't suppose the night clerk is about? Or any staff who might have seen him return last evening?"

"No, Miss. Is he, perhaps, a rather heavy sleeper?_ I_ could enter his room if you think he's simply not awake."

Sam frowned at the idea; she didn't know if he was a heavy sleeper – somehow she doubted it; more likely a very light sleeper, with one eye open. However, she was at a loss as to what else she could do, so she agreed to the plan.

Outside his door again, she waited while the clerk knocked softly, then quite loudly. There was some muffled noise from within and they stared at each other in mild surprise. The clerk leaned towards the door and called out,

"Mr. Foyle, sir? Is everything all right?" The low groan they heard in response was not reassuring. "Mr. Foyle, sir, may I enter?"

The clerk gave Sam a questioning look and she nodded. He tried the door and found it was unlocked, so pushed it open and they stepped into the room.

At first she could see nothing – the heavy drapes and blackout cloth were in place and no lamps were lit. Sam went through the open door to the bedroom, saw the bed was undisturbed and returned to the sitting room. As McKay pulled open the blackout curtain she spied his overcoat crumpled on the floor and crossed to pick it up.

Then she found him, in one of the wing-back chairs facing the cold hearth, slumped with one knee drawn up. Puzzled, Sam approached cautiously, unsure of what to make of the circumstances. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw the dark-stained towel he clutched to his side, the rips at his trouser knees, and finally the bloodied face and the swelling bruise around his eye.

She gasped in shock and turned to the younger man,

"Please fetch a doctor immediately!"

McKay took one look round the edge of the chair, then obeyed her command and rushed out of the room.

Sam knelt down and peered at her boss gravely, quite certain that the cause of his battered condition was more sinister than an accident with a bus. She laid her hand on his arm.

"Sir! What's happened, sir?"

Foyle's eyes flickered open.

"Sam?" his voice was weak and indistinct. "Should've woken you – didn't want to frighten you."

He coughed and winced in pain.

"Coming back from meeting James. Three men. A warning – could've killed me – didn't."

He coughed again and stifled a groan. Sam quickly fetched water from the bedside nightstand and held the glass to his lips. She saw his burst knuckles and guessed that he had fought hard against his attackers. After slipping the loosened necktie from his collar, she unfastened his top shirt buttons with trembling fingers.

"Have – have you been shot, sir? There's a lot of blood."

She reached for the soaked towel but he pushed her hand down gently and held it still. His touch was ice-cold.

"Uhn-no . . . a knife – not deep. Just …to warn me off."

"Off the case?"

He nodded but Sam saw his eyes roll upward and close. A jolt of fear seized her heart; she put her hand on his face and was relieved when he instantly opened his eyes.

From the corridor came the sound of approaching footsteps. The clerk returned with the manager, followed by a maid carrying a basin of hot water. The manager spoke as he entered the room,

"The doctor is coming, Miss Stewart."

He caught sight of Foyle, stiffened, and added,

"Perhaps we should summon an ambulance –?"

Foyle lifted his hand to wave away the suggestion.

"Looks worse than it is." he croaked hoarsely.

Sam got to her feet, hoping to do something active,

"Sir, shall I see the Chief Constable? Let him know what's happened?"

He frowned before answering her.

"Not yet, Sam. Wait."

The doctor arrived, an elderly, sharp-eyed medico with fierce eyebrows, and they were all, save the maid with the basin of hot water, sent out of the room. Sam had taken several determined turns up and down the corridor when there was an anguished cry from Foyle, a shriek from the young maid and a stentorian shout from the doctor. The ashen-faced girl was ejected, and the doctor's voice called out for 'the smart young thing' to come in.

She entered to the sight of bloody shreds of shirt, waistcoat and toweling thrown about the floor. The reek of carbolic acid, alcohol and iodine filled the room. A tall lamp was trained on the patient, illuminating a ghastly, jagged cut oozing fresh blood across Mr. Foyle's bare and bruised torso. Perspiration gleamed on his brow, now nearly as white as the maid's, he was breathing hard, and he seemed on the point of fainting.

"Here, girl, take these swabs!" the doctor barked in a short command.

"He's been stuck like a pig, poor blighter. Must get him stitched before he's drained." And he pulled out a horrible curved needle and proceeded to thread it.

Sam knelt next to the doctor and pressed the swabs against the wound, glanced up, and expressed aloud the alarm that was writ plain on the patient's features,

"Doctor, isn't there anything you could give him? Morphine or –?"

"No, no, none to spare – he'll pass out on the first prick – won't feel a thing after that."

However, it was the third pass of the needle that finally defeated him. Sam had had to turn away, tears stinging her eyes; his stoically suppressed agony was too much for her. Now his features were slack in unconsciousness.

Seated on a low ottoman, the doctor worked on the wound and directed her to clean away the crusted blood on Foyle's face and hands. When his temper was not provoked he was evidently an affable, communicative sort and he commented on the signs of his patient's personal history.

"Saw action in the Great War, eh? Look at this old puncture scar under the pectoral: bayonet – hand-to-hand combat! These scattered pockmarks across the deltoid: shrapnel. And here, this livid ridge has all the hallmarks of field hospital surgery. Still, all in all he's in damned good training, not soft like you'd expect in a civilian – gave the roughs a creditable fight, I'll wager." He chuckled softly to himself, perhaps imagining the scene.

As she carefully washed the blood from Foyle's lacerated knuckles, Sam followed the doctor's anatomical briefing with mixed discomfiture and curiosity.

"He has _two_ fractured ribs – kicked when he was down, I fear. Nothing for it but to bind them tight, and we can't do that until this knife wound heals, so he'll have to lie still. There, that should hold it!" the doctor proclaimed, snipping the last suture and laying the instruments on the table.

"What new damage have you found there?"

Her ministrations had uncovered the cut over his lip and the swollen nose, but the doctor found the teeth were merely loosened, the nose unbroken. The left eye was undamaged under the puffy, deep violet lid. He pulled a magnifying glass from his breast pocket and peered through it as he inspected the facial injuries.

"The hand that did this wore a ring – you see the identical half-moon abrasion here and here?"

Sam looked and nodded in agreement, and as the doctor turned to retrieve another instrument, she paused to study the delicate gold ring that hung on a chain around Foyle's neck. She realised instantly that it was his late wife's wedding band, saw a trace of the elegant lettering of an inscription, and felt a deeper pang of sympathy that he should wear this reminder of his enduring loss.

The maid returned timorously with another basin of steaming water, fresh cloths and bandages; she cast a reverent, respectful glance at her replacement and crept out.

Sam stooped to remove the scratched and scuffed boots and found his socks crusted with the blood that had run down his legs from lacerations on his knees. As she pulled off the right sock a scrap of card landed on the floor – the torn half of a picture postcard, showing 'The Forge Mill' of – somewhere. Sam studied the card with some perplexity before laying it aside.

She was awkwardly attempting to reach up and under the trouser-leg to wash away the blood when the doctor remarked,

"That's not the way to do it, girl. Get his trousers off."

Her mouth fell open in disbelief.

"No – I couldn't possibly! There must be someone else –."

She hurried to the door to look out into the deserted corridor, but returned with a mortified expression, resigned to the fact that there really was no one else.

"Come, come, now, don't be missish; he'll know nothing of it."

The doctor eyed her appraisingly.

"What's that uniform you've got on? Not a WAC?"

"No, Doctor, MTC – Mechanised Transport Corps. I'm his driver."

The old man nodded approvingly.

"Bloody good thing – can't imagine why women don't do more useful work."

He muttered as an afterthought as he turned back to his work,

"Damn sight pleasanter to look at, too,"

Sam moved behind him to the other side of the chair and knelt down on the carpet to focus on working the fly buttons out of the buttonholes, diligently disregarding the garment itself. She unfastened the bloodstained braces and set them to one side.

"Now, what else have we to deal with? Let's make a full examination."

He raised Foyle's inert body while she, with averted eyes, tugged the trousers down and pulled them off his legs.

"A police detective, is he? Based where?" the doctor asked as he went over the limbs expertly.

"Hastings, sir."

She began folding the trousers in an efficient, careful manner, but then realised they were beyond repair. She gathered up the scattered remnants of his other clothing, and noticed a strong, unexpected odour – cigarette smoke. She thought perhaps Chief James must be a heavy smoker, but a bulge in the jacket pocket turned up matches and an open packet of cigarettes. Foyle didn't smoke.

Sam puzzled over this additional oddity, and then found in his overcoat pockets a folding knife with its tip broken off, the luminous armband, and a torch with a cracked lens and the paper shading gone – not the torch he had left with. His briefcase was nowhere to be seen. She placed the collection of loose items on the writing desk and the clothing in a neat bundle by the hearth.

"Those clothes are evidence, by the way; don't clean them or dispose of them," the doctor remarked parenthetically.

"Hastings? An outsider, then! Only one reason to call in an outsider: corruption in the force! He should have anticipated this. Perhaps he did, come to think of it – wanted to see whom he was up against. Best way to draw them out, you know."

Sam gave him an incredulous look,

"Beg your pardon, Doctor, but I _really_ don't think Mr. Foyle would have _allowed_ himself to be attacked, if he had _anticipated_ it – he'll be laid up for weeks."

She regarded the unconscious man with a troubled expression as a worrying doubt crept into her mind.

"Ah, but now they'll make an error, rush their plot forward. You mark my words. _'Boldness is a mask for fear, however great.'_ Dryden, you know."

With tweezers he plucked a shard of glass that had been embedded in the right knee and placed it in the tray she held out for him. Five more shards were removed from the knees and shins before the scrapes could be bathed and bandaged.

As Sam looked closely at the fragments she couldn't help imagining the events of the attack. Three men, he had said. They must have cornered him in some vile alley, knocked him down, kicked him with heavy boots, judging from the marks. Fists had pummeled his body and battered –. No, it was too horrible to think about. She forced her attention back to the evidence in front of her eyes, and said unsteadily,

"These pieces are not all alike – I mean, there are different colours of glass. That could be a clue."

"Wood slivers!" The doctor announced, ignoring her remark and holding up what his tweezers had just extracted from Foyle's temple.

"A wooden fence? Or a shipping palette, perhaps?"

"Do you often work with the police, Doctor?"

"Rarely now, but in my day I assisted them frequently. I worked most often with a private detective. Why do you ask?"

"It's just that you certainly know what to look for – evidence, details."

"I had excellent training, of an informal sort." He smiled to himself as if at a private joke.

"There is no evidence of a blow to the skull. Clearly they did not wish to render him unconscious – they meant to intimidate him. But you see here: no defensive bruises on the underside of the forearms – he never raised his arms to ward off a blow."

"They might have pinned them behind –." She swallowed hard, and couldn't finish the thought.

"No, no: look at his hands. By the state of these fists I would venture to say he is a man who does not intimidate easily."

"I believe you're right there, sir."

"Now, Miss, come round to the front and take his weight while I push him forward – I want to see his back."

Sam did as ordered, but was disconcerted to find herself in a position requiring that she kneel and put her arms around Mr. Foyle's naked shoulders, his head lolling heavily on hers. His breathing was ragged in her ear. As the examination continued, she drew in the mingled scent of his sweat, blood and soap; she felt the rough, intimate scratch of his beard on her neck – and she prayed that he would not wake at that precise moment.

The doctor's exclamations told her that he had found something to make this exercise worthwhile, and he presented to her eyes a roughly triangular metal fragment – the broken tip of the knife.

"There now, thank god it was not two inches to the left."

Now she understood why he'd been twisted in such an awkward position in the chair.

"Oh, the knife itself was in his overcoat pocket, Doctor. You'll find it on the writing desk."

"Jolly good – may be fingerprints on it. All in all an interesting collection that may lead us to the scene of the attack, wouldn't you agree?" the doctor asked, clinking the tweezers into the tray with the other fragments.

"Well . . . yes, sir, but I'm sure Mr. Foyle will easily tell us where the attack occurred when he is able." She said across the awkwardly heavy body.

The doctor regarded her with an air of disappointment.

"That is not the point, young miss. Use the evidence before you; observe, deduce! Take every opportunity to exercise the faculties god has given you. This can only serve to aid you in your work."

Sam did not point out to him that she was merely the detective's driver, though it pleased her to be thought of as a junior detective herself. As if reading her thoughts, the doctor added,

"He wouldn't have you along if you weren't some real use to him in his work, you know. He must recognise some natural aptitude in you. Unless ... _er_…?"

She coloured,

"No, sir! Nothing of the sort!"

His weight really was becoming intolerable now.

"Ah. Good."

The doctor cleaned the wound on the back and, as he closed it with sutures, the patient flinched and his hands convulsively gripped the nearest support – which was the leather uniform belt around Sam's waist. Foyle's deep, helpless groan brought a further uncomfortable blush to her cheeks and she avoided the doctor's glance.

At last they eased the limp form back against the chair and both worked on bandaging the various remaining lacerations.

"We had best lay him out on the bed – this is not a suitable position for his injuries, nor for proper rest. Ah, you see there? The chair has wheels on the rear legs."

After Sam had folded down the bedclothes they manoeuvred the chair across the floor and into the bedroom. She was surprised that, between them, they were able to lift the inert body from the seat up onto the mattress. This elderly physician was stronger than she would have given him credit for. Together they rolled Foyle carefully and slowly onto his right side and supported his upper arm and leg with additional pillows to ease the strain on his rib-cage. Sam pulled up the bedding to cover him, and watched over him a moment.

The doctor cleaned and gathered up his instruments, then returned to speak to her.

"You will nurse him, then? Good. I shall call round in the afternoon. Meanwhile," he produced a whisky bottle from his medical bag, "when he wakes let him have as much of this as he wants. It can't hurt and may do him some good. Until then, good day to you, Miss -?"

"Stewart, sir. Thank-you for coming, _er_, Doctor -?"

"John Watson. At your service."

He saw her reaction to the name, but merely took up his hat, bowed his head with old-fashioned courtesy, and left the room.

She stared after him, amazed and intrigued.

A slight noise, a change in the rhythm of his breathing, brought her attention back to the man on the bed. She could hardly believe that this was Mr. Foyle, her capable, confident superior; she had never seen him so vulnerable. How could he have let this happen? And what was she to do now? She was not to contact Cecil James; she knew no one in the city. She might contact Milner – but what could he do? He was needed in Hastings. Andrew was unavailable. She could do nothing but wait until Foyle could give her his instructions himself.

With a sigh of frustration Sam took the chair at the bedside, rested her chin in her hand and stared forlornly at the back of the unconscious detective. A painful tightness constricted her throat, but she impatiently shook off the urge to weep.

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** This chapter contains scenes of violence, hence the "T rating" for the entire story.

* * *

Chapter 5

Foyle was thoughtful as he walked out the door and down the steps of the nondescript building on Bishopsgate after his meeting with Chief Constable James. He paused on the bottom step, looked up at the overcast sky, down along the street, and then set off in the direction of the hotel. The evening had turned cold, but Foyle was rarely bothered by cold and he was glad of the walk, which would give him time to mull over the new information he had received.

The Chief Constable had made no secret of the fact that he hadn't heard of Foyle, and wasn't overly impressed with his credentials, but because of London CID's recommendation, had no objection to his looking into the case – if he could do it without 'stirring up a hornet's nest.' Foyle had suggested that they get right down to reviewing the known facts, the members suspected of being involved, and the Chief's own theories. He asked whom, if anyone, the Chief had confided in regarding his suspicions; if any member of the force had initially come to him with accusations or evidence; and if there had been any apparent reaction subsequent to his awareness of the situation. He asked for full particulars on the murdered constable, a ten-year veteran who had been stabbed and his body dumped behind the police station.

Foyle had listened, taken notes, and sought clarification on dates, locations and personal histories of members. He laid out a large scale Ordnance Survey map and marked all locations that would figure in the investigation. When they concluded for the evening, having agreed to meet again in three days' time, James was coöperative and businesslike. The meeting had gone well.

Sauntering along the darkening street, Foyle decided that the Chief's unenthusiastic welcome was probably a reliable sign that he believed the corruption was confined to the lower ranks. If he had been keen in showing gratitude for the help it might indicate that he was anxious to divert notice away from someone he wanted to protect. But he had been very forthcoming, frank even, about all the men of his station. James had taken up the post as Chief Constable only the previous September, after the retirement of a well-liked man who had held the position for six years. However, that did not exclude the possibility that he had formed allegiances or enmities that could distort his judgement.

He turned south off Bishopsgate onto the narrower Tennant Street, full of people hurrying home mindful of the blackout rules, and just twenty paces along became conscious of a presence behind him. Without the slightest alteration in his pace he stepped off the pavement to cross the road, checked over his shoulder and spotted the man. He continued on, crossing Islington Row and, with the man still trailing him as he traveled southwest on Calthorpe Road, he entered a newsagent's where he purchased cigarettes and matches. As he went through the once familiar motions of lighting up, he gazed out of the as yet uncurtained window. The man passed by on the opposite side and Foyle noted a certain competence in the way he avoided looking towards the shop. He also noted the subtle signal made to an unseen accomplice who must be waiting on the near side of the road.

It was unlikely that the man had followed him to the meeting, but quite likely that he had followed the Chief Constable. This presented a number of scenarios to his mind – that the Chief Constable was unaware of being followed, which was intolerable; that the Chief Constable was _quite_ aware of being followed and had chosen not to mention it to Foyle, which was intriguing; or that the Chief Constable was having Foyle followed for either benign or malignant reasons, which, either way, was concerning.

Foyle considered his options.

First he made an unobtrusive examination of his present location: undoubtedly the shop had a rear exit into a service lane, but that choice would eliminate the possibility of gaining data from his followers. As they were obliging enough to come forward so promptly, Foyle saw no reason to delay the active part of the investigation. In fact, he admitted to himself, he felt a restless sort of impatience to engage with his opponents.

He approached the shopkeeper.

"Look, I realise you're not keeping a left luggage depot here, but... need to stow this case until tomorrow. Can you help me out?"

He laid a five-pound note on his briefcase. The shopkeeper eyed him for a moment before asking matter-of-factly,

"How do I know there's not a bomb in it?"

Foyle opened the case and allowed him a glance at the contents.

"Just papers, you see. I'd hate to have to type these all again."

He locked the case and the proprietor pocketed the note. Foyle took a picture postcard of 'The Forge Mill, Redditch', out of a display, tore it jaggedly into two pieces and gave one to the man.

"Give the case to whoever brings you this other half. Most likely that'll be me, but it may be a young woman. There'll be another fiver for your trouble."

Foyle shut the shop's inner door and stooped to tuck the half-postcard into his sock before opening the outer blackout door. On the pavement he doubled back in the direction he'd come. The first man soon reappeared, strolling forty paces behind and still on the opposite side. He recognized the likely second man, who had turned out from a callbox just beyond the shop door, and was now loping along the road ahead of him. There was some jockeying for position as they rounded the western edge of the circus and Foyle found himself in the lead as they moved northwest up Harborne Road.

Only a few ordinary civilians remained on the street; a Home Guard patrol passed by and Foyle nodded at them, seemingly oblivious of the danger at his heels.

The second man hurried past him to loiter by a narrow lane up the street. To avoid the interception Foyle crossed the road obliquely, aiming for the door of a pub.

Luckily the place was crowded with workmen reluctant to make their way home for the evening, and he was able to take cover in the throng, lager in hand. Sure enough the two blundered in after him, looking about in an overconfident manner. He had a full five minutes to study them before they located his position.

The first man was tall, but Foyle had not realised how tall until he saw his head and shoulders drift past above the grey and brown sea of hats and caps. His companion dog-paddled beside him, bobbing up to look about as they made their way towards the bar. Foyle gave them nicknames as he watched their movements – Big Brum, after the Birmingham Council House clock tower, and Little Brum, although the second man was in fact close on six feet. Through the haze of cigarette smoke Foyle noted their features, mannerisms, clothing – to the extent that he could make them out in the crowd – as well as the fact that they seemed to know no one in the place.

Big Brum was older, close to Foyle's age, he reckoned, and carried himself with the residual military bearing of a veteran. His partner was not many years younger, but did not have the same air of command about him. If they had served together in the Great War, it was the taller man who had likely distinguished himself. Nonetheless, it was Little Brum who seemed to spot him first, turning his back, nudging his companion and jerking his head to alert him. But Big Brum clearly was the man in charge, at least judging by Little Brum's anxious expression as he repeatedly looked up to his companion for direction.

Foyle never shied away from the direct approach with suspects when he could calculate the likely outcome of such a tactic, but in this case there were too many variables: their motivation in following him had several possible goals – information, intimidation, or worse; the exact nature of the ongoing crime was not yet discovered, so their level of commitment to its success – the murder may have been an error – could not be determined; and, finally, the present location was not to his advantage.

He was content to observe them for the moment, and took a sip of his beer – not a drink he favoured under ordinary circumstances, associating it with his army mess days, but appropriate to his purpose now. As he stood leaning against a post with his glass resting on the half-wall, his attention was drawn to a hushed and earnest conversation amongst a trio of men at a table to his left.

_"…So there's our Roy, with the great bloody locomotive on the Foden low loader parked on Prospect Road in front of his own house, shovelling the coal out of the tender, and 'is missus pushing barrow loads round to the coal hole!"_

The listeners gave a short burst of laughter.

_"When he come to the weighbridge the attendant couldn't explain it: after a journey of only twenty miles the lorry was a ton lighter. There was a hell of a to-do, the attendants at both ends swearin' up and down their weighbridge was correct and blamin' each other for the mistake on the ticket._

_"But Roy got paid for the job – I mean, there was no disputing that he'd brought the locomotive up from Wolverhampton and delivered it to the works yard."_

_"And no one's tumbled to it?"_

_"Not yet, mate."_

They all laughed again and knocked their beer glasses together.

Foyle stowed the tale away in his memory for future reference as another example of a crime of opportunity. He cast a glance over at his followers, standing together in a circle of darts watchers.

It became apparent that the men had no intention of confronting _him_ amongst the crowd either, ...and he didn't like his chances with the two of them in a 'private' interview.

No, he'd learned enough to go on with. He would make his way to the hotel as quickly and cautiously as possible: Big Brum was not expecting him to make a run for it and he would lose them easily, he judged.

Having made his decision, Foyle swallowed the dregs of the half-pint and only then noticed the stub of a burning cigarette between his fingers. He had lit, and smoked to within an inch of the end, another cigarette – and he had done it unawares. Foyle had given up smoking years ago; in fact it was the year and the very month he had got his promotion to Inspector – the same month his friend McCrae, a year younger at twenty-nine, had finally succumbed to the ravages of the Ypres gas attack.

Foyle told himself that this was not the time for introspection.

He took a last drag, crushed the cigarette end in an ashtray and, as the two men were distracted by a dispute over the score in the darts game, pushed his way towards the exit.

He shut the inner door on the noise, warmth and light of the congenial public house, turned the handle of the outer door, and stepped down into pitch-blackness.

The cold night air and the complete dark were a shock. As his fingers slipped off the door handle behind him he was suddenly disoriented; there was not a shade or shadow to distinguish between solid brick, iron lampposts or open air. It was impossible to take a step in any direction.

His torch, he now recalled, was safe in his briefcase at the newsagent's shop.

As Sam's reproachful voice sounded in his head, he shut his eyes tight for as long as he dared wait. He counted off three minutes, four minutes, and another thirty seconds.

When he opened his eyes again there was, blessedly, some slight variation in the gloom. Still, as he moved slowly forward, he had to put out a hand as a precaution against unseen hazards. He knew the two men would soon emerge from the door that was only a dozen paces behind. Flight was no longer an option; he needed to position himself to the best advantage.

Foyle swore silently and cursed himself for not having taken the time to study the streetscape before he'd entered the pub. He really had no idea– but wait, yes; he did recall the narrow lane that Little Brum had been lurking near. Did it extend through to this side of the street? He vaguely thought it did, and so drifted to his right to walk close to the buildings, reaching his hand out to brush across the rough façade. He was tripped up once by a projecting step, but recovered, and had walked what seemed to him a full block, when his hand lost contact and felt only empty air. He moved backwards until he found the corner of the wall, felt his way around and along the side of the building for several yards and stopped to listen and to think.

Standing motionless, he became aware of an odd, dim sort of glow in the lower left quadrant of his vision, and with a start saw that he still wore the luminous armband Sam had fixed to his sleeve. He cursed again, tore it off and stuffed it deep into his pocket. Somehow the Blackout in Hastings had never seemed as black as this. Foyle breathed through his mouth, the better to hear surrounding noises, and was struck by the unnatural silence of the huge city – how could it be so damned quiet? Was the entire population on the_ qui vivre_?

The old phrase from the last war, his war, resonated in his head, until another sound caught his attention. He heard what must be the pub door open and shut, and two pairs of boots on the pavement. He moved further on into the lane, towards a darker shape standing out from the wall and felt at waist-height the rough wood of a disused rubbish box. He made his way around and stood behind it. The footfalls were steady and unhesitating: they had a torch.

To preserve the meagre advantage of night vision that he possessed, Foyle squinted his eyes into slits and pulled his hat lower on his brow. As the steps grew louder, he steadied himself with his left hand on the wall, but then, on some inexplicable impulse, he took one more step back and his heel struck a discarded glass bottle. In the narrow lane the echo of its prolonged and uneven progress sounded like a timpani drumroll in his ears, concluding with a loud clink against the wall.

His heart sank and he dropped down into a crouch. The boots continued on. He raised his head to watch the circle of dull light from their shaded torch sweep by along the pavement and then pass beyond the entrance of the lane. Cautiously he rose up.

But they returned in a rush, striding purposefully down the lane towards him; Big Brum ripped the paper masking off the torch and directed the harsh beam full in his eyes, effectively blinding him. Foyle blocked the light with an upraised hand and peered beyond it to face the two men.

The first blow came from his right, landing square on his jaw and knocking him into the brick wall, but he stayed on his feet and braced his back against it. He saw a hand flash into the light and dodged the second blow. As the fist smashed into the wall beside his ear he launched himself forward to tackle the man, lifting him bodily with his shoulder across the lane and drove him against the opposite side, a solid crack signalling the impact of the man's head.

Foyle felt him drop like a dead weight but had no time to savour his triumph, for Big Brum jerked him back by his coat collar and threw him down to the ground. In the wavering flash of the torch he saw one large, heavy boot raised up; he rolled to avoid it, but it slammed into his side and he felt something snap sharply. He cried out from the shock, gasped for air, and lay still.

The torch's beam went over to the first man and dropped down as his mate squatted to help him.

"Ray? Ray? Get up, lad! Come on, gi' yer head a shake."

'Ray' groaned and flailed around, finding his bearings.

"_Jeezuz_, Stan, me effin' head. Why th'ell'd he 'atta do that? Gi' us an 'and."

The two men got up onto their feet and the torch was directed over to Foyle.

"I think yuv 'urt 'im."

"That was the plan."

"Is it enuf, then? Can we leave 'im?"

"Yeh."

"Should we ask 'is name?"

"It's no matter."

Foyle lay on his side watching the two pairs of boots walk away, but they halted when a motor sounded nearby on the street. Its hooded headlamps rolled slowly past and came to a stop. A door opened and shut and solitary footsteps approached. Foyle was not encouraged that his two attackers felt no need to flee the scene. Rather the opposite: Big Brum took a proprietary stance.

"We've taken care of this. You've no need to stop."

The third man, a dark figure beyond the torch's glare, stared down at him.

"This's 'im? Where's his case?"

"His case? Ray, where's 'is case?"

"Well, 'e 'ad it – but, s'truth! 'E never 'ad it in th'pub, did 'e, Stan? _Christ_, 'e must've ditched it somewhere."

"Ah, it were the shop. 'E went in with it and come out without." Stan admitted unhappily.

The man shouted aggressively at his companions,

"You 'aven't got his case, then? Bloody useless, this! Get 'im up on his feet."

"There's no need. We've taken care of it."

"Get 'im on 'is feet!"

Foyle braced for the wrench as Ray and Stan seized him under the arms and pulled him upright. He found himself facing the full beam of the torch again, unable to get a look at the face beyond it.

"Who're you, then?"

Foyle saw no disadvantage or danger, at this point, in giving his name – and there was no one they could threaten on his behalf. His speech was slurred a little from the punch to his jaw.

"Th' name's Foyle. I'm a p'lice officer. But I think you know that"

"Foyle?"

The man began to pat down his clothing and Foyle watched his hands closely; a gold ring flashed under his eyes and he made an effort to focus on it, noting its details.

Then the hand reached inside his jacket, pulled out his pocketbook and examined his warrant card under the torch. Foyle examined the links on his shirt cuffs, the knot and pattern of his necktie, and squinted over the light at the man's face.

"'Detective… _Chief Superintendent_…'" The man's voice faltered for an instant. Ray eased the grip on his arm and Stan stood a little straighter.

"Ah, from Hastings? Not even a London man!" He said to his companions with renewed bravado. "A big fish in a little pond. Well, Foyle, you're in a great effin' inland sea now, and comin' up 'ere was your first mistake."

He threw away the pocketbook and passed the torch to Big Brum.

"Keep it trained on 'im, Stan."

Without warning the man pulled his fist back and landed a hard jab at Foyle's nose, and a rapid follow-up to his eye. Ray was startled and let go of his arm, and Foyle was able to fall away from the second blow to lessen its force. Stan's hold remained firm.

"Hey-up, what'd ye wanna do that for, George? 'E's hurt enuf." Ray asked.

"Shut it! Mr. Foyle 'ere isn't put off yet. I don't think he's ready to go 'ome."

The torch dipped an inch and Stan took a step forward.

"No, George, we'll have no more o' that. It's not 'elpin'."

"It's not 'elpin' if all these bloody coppers are onto it. Either he's out of it for a fortnight or he's dead – either suits me, but it's got to be done."

Foyle turned his head to spit out blood and spoke up,

"Well, neither suits me. What's in a fortnight, George?"

"Bloody cheek!"

Foyle had gambled on the man losing his temper, and the other two flinched back in anticipation. With the chance of the moment Foyle was able to bring up his fists and get his own back, delivering a high right and then a left uppercut. Both punches connected in the darkness with the unseen figure before the others could react. Ray was first to move, grappling him around the middle and hauling him off sideways. Foyle managed to whirl round to land a solid blow to Ray's jaw before Stan again pulled him off and laid an arresting hand – that was the word for it, Foyle reflected – heavily upon his shoulder, pushed his back against the wall and seized his arm. Blinded again by Stan's torch, he decided to go quiet.

Ray came forward and grasped his other arm.

"Jeezuz, he's quick when he wants to be. All right, George?"

"Shut it, Ray! That's it, then! Hold 'im. He's too much effin' trouble."

Foyle could make out the man's hand reaching into an inner pocket and a knife blade flashing open. Breathing hard with rage, George thrust his face close into the light; he was almost a head taller and Foyle noted with satisfaction the results of his defiance – a bloodied nose and mouth – and studied the contorted features with interest.

George hissed at him,

"You should've stopped home with yer missus, Mr. Foyle. You'll not be seein' 'er again."

He felt the metal blade, unexpectedly warm from the man's breast pocket, pressed against his throat. Foyle met the man's eyes evenly, but a strange rush of adrenaline coursed through his veins and he asked provocatively,

"What's in a fortnight, George? Y'see, _I've_ got to know where to meet you – the railyard? Or the munitions works?"

The blade jerked away as the man took a step back in shock.

"Christ, George, 'e knows!" Ray cried and backed away. "They all know –!"

"'E's bluffin' – 'e knows naught." Stan said matter-of-factly.

Foyle was beginning to like Stan.

"'E soon will, 'n all! I won't 'ave it!" George shouted in fear.

The knife came up fast from the darkness below; Stan put an arm out to block it, but the steel penetrated the layers of jacket, waistcoat and shirt and Foyle gasped as he felt it dig into the flesh of his already burning side. Two hands fought over the blade, one pushing it deeper, and the other pulling it back. Pinned against the wall, Foyle clenched his teeth and stifled a groan. The torch clattered onto the cobbles, the light snuffed out, and Stan won at last by shoving his shoulder against George.

"Take 'im off, Ray – gi' us a minute."

Ray dragged him further back into the darkness. Glass crunched under their feet and they were stopped by a gated wooden fence built across the lane. Ray held him firm against the boards, but Foyle didn't resist; he concentrated on the other men, two shadows struggling together and arguing over his fate. As Foyle listened to their voices he shut his eyes, not only from the pain, but also in an effort to regain his night vision.

Ray's grip relaxed as he fished out his own shaded torch, and strained to hear the verdict, but he felt his captive sinking down and put his arms out to support him.

Knowing he had his full attention, Foyle addressed him in a low, weary voice,

_"Ray, don't let your brother destroy your life. Get out of this. You're cleverer than he is."_

Taken aback, the man stared at him, frightened and slack-jawed.

_"Stan wants out, doesn't he?"_

Ray answered in a despairing whisper,

_"'E never wanted in. It was Alan Cartwright convinced 'im–."_

The sound of a vehicle driving slowly by on the street brought them all to attention; Stan pushed George against the wall.

"Bloody 'Ome Guard, George! Let's 'ave done wi' it and go!"

George readily agreed and hurried deeper into the lane, but he had his own idea of the meaning of 'have done with it.' Foyle could make out the murderous intention in his approach.

"'E's got to be put off!"

Both Ray and Foyle dodged the swing of his arm, but George attacked again, driving his fist into the side of Foyle's head, sending him crashing into the wooden gate. Foyle dropped to his knees on the glass-strewn cobbles. Before he recovered, George dragged him through the broken glass, hauled him up onto his feet and hit him hard in the stomach. Foyle doubled over, fell forward and stayed down, choking as he fought to suck air back into his lungs.

"That's enuf! Leave 'im be, now."

George circled around out of Stan's reach and brought his fist down onto Foyle's back. The knife's keenness was hampered by the thick wool coat, but still it cut all the way through before Stan's boot – Foyle assumed it was Stan's – kicked both blade and fist away. Foyle heard a body slam into the wooden fence.

"That's enuf! We'll not 'ave another death for this!"

Then Stan added helpfully,

"We'll move it up a se'ennight."

George obeyed the larger, stronger man who at last had raised his voice in a firm command, but declared bullishly,

"He'll not trouble us."

Stubbornness, pride or recklessness brought Foyle slowly, painfully up onto his feet again, and his steady stare, in the wavering torchlight, denied the man any sense of triumph or satisfaction – the beating was unimportant, while the close contact had betrayed a wealth of information beyond his opponent's comprehension.

George glowered back at him, weighing the chances of getting past Stan and knocking that defiance out of his eyes once and for all – but settled on an oath and a curse. The three turned and sauntered off, boots echoing in the silent lane. Ray cast one fearful, almost pleading glance back, as Foyle collapsed against the fence and allowed himself to sink to the ground.

He sat propped on the boards, one knee drawn up against his aching side, recovering his breath and fighting down the nausea from the blow to the stomach. He hadn't felt physical pain like this since –_ since the death of his wife…_

No, it was nothing as bad as that.

Foyle reached into his coat for the packet of cigarettes, lit one and drew in the soothing smoke. He would lay himself down and_ 'bleed awhile, then rise to fight again,'_ he mused poetically, if somewhat ironically.

He felt the warm blood spreading and cooling over his shirt, and shivered with the sensation. Well, he might never rise at all if he did nothing to stop the bleeding…

After what seemed to him a vague and desultory series of thoughts – first deciding against a hospital, which would attract official notice and require an open inquiry, thus defeating his very purpose in coming here; then rejecting his chances with a private doctor because he had no contacts amongst the medical profession in this city and could not rely on a stranger's discretion – he determined that he would simply make his way the few blocks to the hotel and take care of it himself – with Sam's help if necessary.

Sam.

He hated the thought of involving her in this. It wasn't fitting for a young woman.

How long had he been gone?

He couldn't quite focus to see the time on his watch. However, his eyes had adapted to the dark enough that he thought he could navigate the streets. The clouds were breaking up and the sliver of moon would be of some help. A distant clock began tolling the hour, but he lost count of the strokes. He fished out a handkerchief, mopped the blood from his mouth and nose, re-folded and pressed the cloth firmly against the knife wound on his side, and struggled up onto his feet.

He found George's folding knife, its tip broken off, and pocketed it, then moved forward and stooped to pick up his warrant card, pocketbook, his hat and the smashed torch.

Somehow he avoided the patrolling Home Guard and got to the hotel, weak, exhausted, and nauseated from the sharp incessant stitch in his ribs. Once inside the blacked out front door, he found the lamplight excruciating to his eyes. The night duty clerk was away from his post; Foyle pulled himself slowly up the staircase, leaning heavily on the handrail, praying the clerk would not return and question him. In the hallway he stood at Sam's door a moment, but could not bring himself to wake her – it would be unfair and bothersome to give her such a fright.

He entered the bathroom, again painfully blinded when he hit the light switch, with the intention of cleaning off the blood and examining the damage. Instead he staggered off balance, fell hard against the washstand and, after suppressing an anguished cry, nearly vomited into the sink from the pain.

'Seems to be the theme for this case,' he thought cynically as he hung over the basin, gasping from the wrenching shock of the spasms. Something warm oozed across his back, and something wet trickled down his rib-cage under his shirt. He stared uncomprehending for a moment at the blood-soaked handkerchief still clutched in his fingers.

_'Christ, it was better out in the cold air – the warmth of the room made him so tired…'_ He shook his head to try to clear it, feeling a distant sense of foreboding.

As the last of his strength drained from him, he pulled a towel from the rail; it was all he could do to make his way to his room and collapse onto the chair by the low-burning fire. Its faint heat minimally eased his discomfort, and it was enough for him to drift into a kind of disoriented half-consciousness that passed for sleep.

TBC...


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N for the final scene in this chapter:** Dr. Watson's war wound is a topic for lively debate amongst Sherlockians and Holmesians and Baker Street Irregulars. In _A Study in Scarlet_, Watson recounts his experiences as an Army Surgeon during the Second Anglo-Afghan War, specifically the Battle of Maiwand, and says he was wounded by 'a Jezail bullet' in the shoulder. In _The Sign of the Four_, he is nursing a wounded leg, which had had a Jezail bullet through it. Lastly, in_ The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor_, he mentions 'the Jezail bullet which I had brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan campaign.' Sam gets a first-hand glimpse as to the answer to this mystery.

* * *

Chapter 6

Sam's POV

The young maid who had retreated in disgrace had been given an opportunity to redeem herself by carrying up a tray of hot tea and sandwiches, and offering to light the fire, tidy the room and take away the ruined clothes. The last service was declined, but the others gratefully accepted, and the maid departed in better spirits than she had entered.

Sam was surprised to find that it was past noon and, despite the distressing circumstances, that she was rather hungry. She was finishing a second cup of tea when a soft tap at the door brought the young desk clerk in, enquiring if he might be of assistance.

They stood talking quietly in the sitting room for some moments, until Sam invited him to sit on the settee and she turned out the chair at the writing desk.

"What do you make of this, Miss Stewart – just a spot of bad luck, or –?"

"Well, I'm not going to make anything of it until I hear the full details from him."

"Of course. I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to imply–."

"No, it's alright. I'm sorry. That sounded rude. I, _er_ – I really don't know what to make of it. Nothing like this has ever happened before. Mr. Foyle's very good at his work, very clever and very experienced. He doesn't make mistakes."

"It's very loyal of you to say so."

"It's not loyalty – it's the truth, Mr. McKay."

"Well, perhaps these criminals are playing for very high stakes – more determined to prevent any interference with their success. This looks like the result of a desperate act, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes. Quite desperate." Sam was thoughtful, then looked up at the man with a forced brightness and changed the subject.

"You're not a native 'Brummy,' Mr. McKay. What brings you to this part of the country?"

"Please, call me Kenneth. It's my aunt, actually. Her family owns this hotel and, after I was invalided out, she offered me the chance to learn the business from the ground up, so to speak. If we're all still standing at the end of the war, it will be a very good position for me. And how long have you been with the MTC, Miss Stewart?"

"Joined up in 1940. This is my second assignment after training. The less said about the first, the better."

"Oh, but now you've piqued my curiosity." He smiled.

"Well, I was_ first_ assigned to a Deputy Secretary in the Ministry of Aircraft Production, but he expected rather more than my training had prepared me for. We hadn't done hand-to-hand combat." She said matter-of-factly.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I suppose that sort of thing does go on. But no trouble in this assignment, I trust?"

"None whatsoever. It's a privilege to work for Mr. Foyle."

McKay gazed at her somewhat wistfully.

"Still, a pretty girl like you, Miss Stewart, you must have rather a lot of attention to contend with, with all the men travelling through the country in these times."

"Well, yes. The truth is, I've just turned down a marriage proposal."

McKay stared in surprise.  
"Good lord, Miss Stewart–!"

"From an American."

"Ah, I understand."

He smiled.

"Look, if you feel it's alright, why don't _I_ sit with Mr. Foyle for a while and you can take a break? Things are pretty quiet downstairs."

After checking that all was unchanged with the patient, Sam gratefully withdrew and went to her own room. She had only just sat down on the edge of the bed when she surprised herself by bursting into tears. She sobbed helplessly for a few minutes before she could bring herself under control.

_'Stop it! Stop it this instant, Stewart!'_ she commanded herself sternly, but relented a little, accepting that this was only a natural reaction to the stress of the circumstances. She lay down on her bed but found it impossible to truly rest and so, after freshening up and changing her uniform shirt, took herself outdoors for a quick walk around the grounds of the hotel. The fresh air and exercise helped, and she returned to the sick room with a book tucked under her arm.

Through the doorway Sam saw McKay sitting in the chair by the bedside, contemplating the sleeping man. When he heard her enter, he rose and came out to speak to her.

"He's hardly moved a muscle, but his breathing is strong and steady."

"Thank-you, Kenneth. This is very kind of you. I'm sure you'll want to get back to your regular duties now."

"It's my pleasure, Miss Stewart."

"Samantha – Sam."

"My pleasure, Samantha. Call on me for anything at all, I insist."

She settled into the chair at the bedside again and opened her book.

An hour later the doctor returned. He made his examination, shining his penlight into the patient's eyes, listening through his stethoscope to lungs and heart, and checking for signs of infection around the lacerations and wounds. While he worked quietly, Sam found it impossible not to stare in amazement at the man - a figure she had always thought of as fictional having apparently stepped out of the pages of books to become a living person who had clearly led a full life and grown into a vigorous old age.

He closed up his medical bag and signaled her to follow him out of the bedroom. In the sitting room he spoke quietly, ignoring the obvious curiosity in her expression.

"Jolly good. He is doing well, and should make a slow but full recovery. The important thing is that he must not try to do too much too soon – he must rest to give the fractures a chance to knit together. Otherwise there could be further damage. I understand you came up by car."

"Yes, doctor."

"Well, I fear he would find the return journey very uncomfortable indeed within the next fortnight. It would be wise to find other means to travel by, if possible."

"Very good, sir."

"You have been trained in first aide; I can confidently leave you to change the dressings. Do you have any questions, Miss Stewart?"

"How long should I expect him to remain unconscious?"

"Oh, he is merely sleeping now. He will wake when he is ready. I'd like to call again tomorrow when he _is_ awake. I should like to meet your Mr. Foyle properly. Anything else?"

Sam hesitated before asking shyly,  
"Did you... really work with... Mr. Holmes, doctor?"

He smiled indulgently and nodded.  
"Indeed, I did. It was many years ago."

"What was he like?"

"Exactly as I describe him, though perhaps not quite as unfeeling as I made him out to be. A wise man, a decent man, the best I ever knew."

He inclined his head in a slight bow, took up his hat and walked out. It was only then that she noticed the slight limp in his gait, and smiled to have an answer to one of the persistent questions that arose from discrepancies in his published case accounts.

TBC...


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Foyle's POV

When the doctor had forced him to move and flex limbs that were benumbed with bruises and pain, Foyle understood just how badly he was hurt. He could tolerate the discomfort while motionless, but now, struggling out of his jacket and waistcoat, his body was wracked with chills, sweat dampened his brow and he feared he might pass out.

_If he could just be still...!_

The doctor was asking him questions. Foyle gave his name, but then recited his old rank and warrant number, tried again, but gave his army service number. He felt a sensation in his ears as though he were intermittently plunging under water. What was the man saying now? Something about serving as an Army surgeon... _wounded where? Thrown over a packhorse_ …Foyle couldn't follow–-. _Which war?_

Then when the doctor peeled the stiff shirt fabric away from the congealed wound, he lost control and cried out. Someone shrieked; he was certain it wasn't himself. The next instant Sam was beside him; he blanched to see her hands pressing swabs against his bloodied, naked body, and asking for_ ...morphine?_

_Oh, god..._ The doctor's fearful instrument approached and his fingers gripped the arms of the chair until he thought he'd crack them off the oak frame, but he wouldn't show weakness in front of her...

Blackness flowed in from the edges of his vision, blotting out the dim room, the cruel metal piercing his flesh, and lastly the image of her sweet face stained with tears...

_Foyle felt nothing, existed nowhere, for a long time; then a series of impressions began to play before his inner vision – a bright blue sky, a green place, a road. He was moving through the landscape in a car; he turned to the driver – Rosalind, smiling at him, looking content and lovely, as she was before her illness._

_Next he was standing alone on the road; no, not alone – pulling the hand of a young Andrew, pleading with the boy to come away from the gate of an empty house._

_Then a nearly full-grown Andrew faced him squarely, displeased, annoyed, turned his back and walked away._

_The grinding, rising sound of a car bearing down on him – he saw it approach swiftly, deliberately – he could not make out a driver; the car struck him, and he was thrown to the roadside broken and bleeding._

Sitting at the bedside with her book, Sam heard the sudden change in his breathing and looked over in concern. His eyes under the lids moved rapidly, following some invisible scene – she knew he was dreaming and that it was not a pleasant one. Foyle gave a half-grunt, half-cry and groaned. She moved to the edge of the chair and leaned closer.

_Rosalind again, looking on at the accident from a distance, her hands deep in the pockets of her favourite tweed coat, concerned yet... disengaged – she expected him to sort himself out, she could not help him. He lay on his back on the verge, distraught, unable to move, staring up at swaying tree branches._

As his muffled groan altered to a choking sob and a drawn-out moan of pain, Sam reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder. But she decided against trying to wake him – without morphine his injuries would be agonizing – instead she smoothed his damp hair and gently stroked his brow. His groans faded and his breathing slowed and calmed. She heard one last sound, one name uttered with such profound, desperate longing –_ 'Ros...'_ After that he slept quietly for a long time.

_A figure approached, silhouetted against the sun, and reached down to smooth his brow, take hold of his hand and help him onto his feet. They began walking together down the road. He looked back over his shoulder to Rosalind, reluctant to leave her. She smiled with acceptance as she watched him go. He turned to see who the person was, walking beside him... _

Foyle's eyes flickered open to the lamp-lit image of his young driver reading in a chair. He thought he was at home and couldn't grasp the circumstances that had brought her to him. The image wavered, and then a bruised, bandaged hand – his own hand resting on the pillow – loomed in the forefront of his vision. He felt throbbing pain demanding his attention in every part of his body, and wondered how he had come to be struck down by a car – what car?

Then in an instant his mind cleared and he knew he was at the hotel in Birmingham, and recalled in a sickening rush the events of the past day – or night? He couldn't quite place things in order, and just now lacked the will to try.

He was still immersed in the confusion of the dream.

Rosalind had come to him in his sleep before – though he did not consider it a dream but rather a visit, a sign from her that she, or her spirit, still existed, was still connected to him. The first had been just three days after the service, when he thought he could not possibly carry on. She had appeared, sitting on the garden bench, wearing the frock he most liked to see her in, and she simply looked at him with calm and steady eyes, as if to say,_ 'I am well, I am in a good place; take comfort in knowing this.' _

And he had. He had taken profound spiritual comfort from it and this had allowed him to pull himself together and function well – to meet his responsibilities as a father and in his work. Nearly three years later, when he had lost his way, allowed depression to overwhelm his dedication, she returned. Once again she merely gazed at him, but with a sad concern in her eyes, and he had understood that his grief must not reduce his life to less than she would hope for him, and for their son.

But this dream – he was uneasy; he didn't trust it.

He watched Sam, absorbed for the moment in a page of her book, saw the soft glow of her hair, the radiance of her face in the lamplight, and felt both disquieted and grateful for her presence. She glanced up, saw he was awake, smiled and softly said,

"There you are – I'm glad you're back with the living, sir."

Foyle lifted his head and the pain was manageable, then tried to shift his body and immediately regretted it. He passed his tongue over his dry lips, tasting the rusty tang of blood. His voice came out slurred and hoarse.

"Sorry. Should've gone out the back way."

Sam wasn't quite sure what he meant, but let the remark pass.  
She held the water glass for him and when he had taken a sip, asked,  
"What can I do for you, sir?"

"Jus' ...tell me the damage, so I know what t'expect."

She leaned forward in the chair and spoke in a calm, quiet voice,

"Two fractured ribs under the knife wound, a puncture wound to the back that also required suturing; rather bad lacerations to knees, temple, nose and hands; a couple of loosened teeth, a ruddy good shiner, and a broken bone in this finger –."

She slipped her right hand under his left where it rested on the sheet and indicated the index finger.  
"– I'm not sure which bone, but it's been splinted and taped to the next finger for support."

She reached for the small bottle of whisky on the bedside table and held it where he could see it.  
"You may be interested to know that the doctor says you can take as much of this as you want."

Foyle grunted.

"Where'd they find the doctor? Must've served in the bloody Crimea."

"Actually, the Second Afghan War, I believe."

"_Unh_. Best open the whisky, then."

Foyle pushed away the extra pillows and Sam stood to move them out of his way. He slid his feet out of the covers, held his left arm close against his side and slowly, cautiously pushed himself up with his right until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Sweat shone on his brow and he felt nauseated from the effort, but the shot of neat whisky Sam gave him dissipated the worst of it.

While she crossed the room to the wardrobe, he looked down at his bandaged body and surreptitiously checked under the sheet to see that he was, thank god, not entirely naked. He passed a hand over his face and felt the trace of dried salt around his eyes – had he wept in his sleep? _Christ._

His fingers moved protectively to cover the gold band on the chain around his neck.

Sam returned with his dressing gown and slippers and a faint blush on her cheeks that only served to increase his discomfort. He almost resented her presence for a moment, but knew he had only himself to blame. When he was decently covered Foyle eased his weight onto his feet, tested his legs and stood nearly upright. Sam hovered close by, willing to help but hesitant to overstep personal boundaries.

Breathing hard, he looked up at her sheepishly,  
"Thankfully I've no pressing engagements today. _Er_, what day is it? – And what time is it?"

"It's still Tuesday, sir; just turned four, or I should say, sixteen hundred hours."

"Is that desk clerk on duty today, the young man with the, _er_... ?"

"Kenneth? Yes, he is. Shall I ask him to come up?"

"Kenneth, is it? Yes, please do."

With the young man's assistance, Foyle made his way to the lavatory, relieved his most urgent need without fainting, and struggled into pyjamas. He decided to forego both a glance in the mirror and shaving, but McKay offered to send for a barber when wanted.  
The unavoidable intimacy of the circumstances brought them to converse about the inconvenience of various injuries, and Foyle learned that the man had served on _HMS Cossack_ during the Altmark incident in Norway in 1940, and lost his arm in the boarding skirmish. They traded stories of bayonet combat while creeping slowly back to the room.

"...So my war lasted just over a year, and now I'm home wondering if this," he raised the stump of his arm, "is part of some high plan of the Almighty's, or just a rather bad joke."

"Bit of both, I'd suppose. Can I offer you a whisky?"

"I'm off duty at six. May I come back for it, sir?"

"Of course. I'll look forward to it; and, _er_, I think my driver here would be glad of a break, wouldn't you, Sam?" he remarked as they entered the room.

"Oh, I don't mind, sir." She answered from her position by the window.

"This young lady's devotion to duty has been commendable, if I may say. Above and beyond the call."

Foyle saw the man's admiring gaze and commented,

"Expect she'll be requesting a transfer shortly, to something less troublesome. Bomb Disposal, perhaps." He lowered himself into the chair at the hearth with a grimace.

McKay smiled,  
"Until six, then, sir. Miss Stewart."

McKay departed and Sam fixed a whisky and water and set it on the small table by his chair.

"Do you have an appetite, sir? I can have something sent up."

Foyle shook his head,  
"Thanks, but no. You must eat, Sam"

"I'll go down at six."

She sat on the sofa and with a quiet serious manner addressed her boss.

"Sir, can I ask –, can I discuss something with you?"

As usual she did not wait for his answer.

"The doctor suggested that you might have deliberately confronted those three men; that you did it to gain information – about them and about who they work for."

Foyle had reached out for the glass of whisky; his hand froze midway. Then he took up the glass and gazed at her frankly.

"Oh?"

"At first I thought it was an extraordinary idea; but I've been thinking and . . . well, I don't think you'd be careless. I think you _would_ have anticipated the possibility of one of them learning you'd been called in, and alerting others of your arrival."

"You think I put myself at risk needlessly?"

"I can't say that. I don't know what information you might have gained. But – well, _did_ you expect it?"

He swirled the liquor around in the glass.

"When I spotted the men I was not surprised. That's really all I can claim. I'm not clairvoyant, Sam."

"No, but – could you have avoided them? Or did you learn something important enough to justify – _this_?" she gestured towards him.

Foyle's face darkened and he paused before answering.

"Look, Sam – my job here is to investigate a homicide connected to alleged corruption within this police force. Every member and each one of their associates is a suspect – and a potential threat. Now, certainly it would be far more convenient if the people involved simply handed me their calling cards and offered to show me what they've been up to –,"

Sam bridled at his apparent sarcasm.

"– But what they did last night – to send out a welcoming party, in effect – is of tremendous value. This... _inconvenience_ is not something that can be calculated or justified. The...'enemy,' for lack of another word, chose to make the first move and reveal themselves in this way; I'm here to engage the enemy."

"'Inconvenience?' What if they'd killed you, sir?"

"Then someone else would be sent to investigate." Foyle downed half the whisky in the glass.  
"But they _didn't_. Which suggests several different hypotheses that I'll keep in mind as the investigation continues. All right?"  
There was an impatient edge to his voice.

"It just seems reckless, that's all." She insisted stubbornly.

"It's dangerous work at times; you know that."

"Well, I –."

She stopped herself from finishing the remark; they stared at each other for a moment, until Foyle looked away, muttering,  
_"We wouldn't be having this discussion if you were a man."_

Sam rose to her feet, affronted, and replied, evenly at first, but with rising temper,  
"No, I'm sure we wouldn't, sir. Because if I were a man you'd have taken me along last night, and instead of three against one it would've been three against two, and perhaps you'd have some of them in custody!"

Foyle stared up at her incredulously.  
"Are you scolding me, Sam?"

"No. Of course not, sir."  
She sat down again, a little chastened.

"There is a _reason_ I'm working on my own. I don't have to explain it to you. And I don't need my driver's approval on the methods I use in any investigation I undertake."

"No, sir."  
There was an uncomfortable silence.

"With respect, sir... since you mention it. It's true that a male driver would not express concern for your safety: men tend not to talk about such things. But I don't think that it's unprofessional for me, as a female driver, to express it."

He considered her words briefly, but he did not consider the effect his impatient reply would have upon her.  
"It's not that it's unprofessional – it's unnecessary."

As soon as the words were spoken he saw he'd made a serious error. Sam seemed visibly to shatter; her eyes shone with sudden tears as she said quietly,

"I see. I won't trouble you any further, sir. Excuse me."

She crossed the room swiftly, and though he tried to call her back, she closed the door behind herself.

Foyle ran his fingers across his brow in exasperation and swallowed the remaining whisky. He stared at the bandages over his knuckles and it occurred to him that he didn't know whether it was the doctor or Sam herself who had applied them. He cursed under his breath and, despite the anticipation of reawakened pain, with difficulty got to his feet.

Outside her door he steadied his laboured breathing, composed himself and knocked. But the sound was muffled by the bandages and he wasn't sure if she would hear. He called her name once, twice. A slight noise from inside the room gave him hope that she would listen to him.

The door opened and she stood back to allow him in. It confused him to see that her eyes were dry – somehow this was more ominous than the girlish sobbing he'd expected.

"Sam, I want to apologise –."

"It's unnecessary." She folded her arms across her body.

"No, it is, I've –."

"It's unnecessary, sir." She stared down at her feet.

"Sam..." He moved closer to her, "Please..."

She refused to look at him; he laid a bandaged hand on her arm.

"It's unnecessary." She turned her face away.

Foyle held her by the shoulders and spoke across the top of her head.  
"I'm sorry. I hadn't meant to hurt you."

"You haven't hurt me. It's just unpleasant to watch you hurt yourself, that's all."

Her words stunned him – _what on earth did she mean, 'hurt himself?'_

She answered his unspoken question,

"No, I don't mean physically; I don't mean the - the fight – although I'm sure it's connected in some way. I mean, inside. It's as if you can't allow anyone to be concerned for you, to be close to you ever again; as if you feel you don't deserve some closeness, some - happiness–."

_"I don't- want- to be happy."_ The words were torn out of him before he knew he was saying them. He stared searchingly at the ceiling.  
"I don't want –." His voice faltered.

"...To forget her? You don't have to forget her – no one who cares for you would expect that."

She unfolded her arms and cautiously, lightly embraced him.

"But ..._Andrew_ believes... she wouldn't want you to be unhappy and alone; she loved you too much."

With the last words her tears spilled over and she rested her cheek against his shoulder.

Foyle struggled for composure, shutting his eyes tight. They stood together for some time until he took in a long breath, pulled away gently and went to the door.

He paused with his back to her, his fingers on the handle, and said quietly,

"Thank-you, Sam."

He seemed to hesitate; she took one step towards him – he opened the door and walked out.

Later she heard the desk clerk go to his room and a fragment of their conversation before the door shut. She was glad to know he had Kenneth McKay's company for a little while, as her own presence seemed to have become problematic.

Sam mulled over his words and the disquieting events of the past twenty-four hours and she recalled a conversation she had once had with her father.

It had concerned one of his parishioners, a man of sterling reputation who had inexplicably gotten into some minor trouble with the law, and to whom her father had spent many days giving counsel. Without breaking a confidence, her father had explained to her the nature of the thoughts and feelings that had led to the strange and uncharacteristic actions.

After sitting unhappily through a meal in the dining room she arranged with the cook to secure a mug of hot soup for later in the evening, and carried it up to his room around eight o'clock.

She found him seated in the wing-back chair, now placed again beside its mate in front of the hearth. She was encouraged to see that he had shaved, and that he was reading the book she had left on the bedside table earlier.

"I've brought you a little soup, sir. Oh, I see you've found my book. What do you think of it?"

"Remarkable; I'm... impressed with your choice of reading matter."

"Well, one tries to improve oneself. Here, sir." She tasted the soup and held out the mug handle-first,

"I think this is just the right temperature."

Foyle stared at her, somewhat nonplussed, until she complained,  
"It _is_ hot, sir."

He took the mug and warmed his hands around it while she made a show of shaking out her scalded fingers.  
Foyle peered at the soup and then tried a tentative sip.

Retreating behind the other wing chair, Sam leaned her forearms along the back and asked in an earnest tone,  
"What are you going to do next, sir?"

"... I've been told to drink this soup." And he suited the action to the word.

Sam blinked and then noticed the two glasses flanking the now empty whisky bottle on the small table.

"Ah. Well. No need to think about the case just yet; plenty of time tomorrow – or... the next day."

"_Mmh_, the case – will you bring me my jacket, please, Sam?"

She fetched it for him and again stood behind the chair. Foyle searched through the pockets, then frowned,  
"Did you find... _er_... a card, a postcard?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

She picked up the torn card on the writing desk and handed it to him, saying casually,  
"It was in your sock, sir."

Foyle kept his head down, avoiding her eyes,  
"Right. _Erm_, good: my briefcase."

"Sir?"

"This is my 'baggage claim ticket.'"

"Is it?" She began to wonder whether he was more affected by the whisky or by his injuries.

"Yes. This and a five-pound note will get my briefcase back from a very helpful shopkeeper in Calthorpe Road. I didn't want it to fall into the hands of the, _er_, gentlemen I met last night."

The words he'd spoken when he first regained consciousness now made sense.

"You could have gone out the back way." She repeated it as a statement and not a question.

He looked up at her.  
"Y-yes. I didn't. M-may have been a... tactical error."

Sam accepted that this was the closest thing to an admission of fault that he would make over the incident.

In the quiet of the room they became aware of a distant sound – the far off whine of an Air Raid siren winding up, the percussive thud of bombs landing, and the staccato response of ack-ack guns.

Sam bit her lip as she looked at her boss; he was in no condition to make a run for the shelter.

"It sounds very far away." She said hopefully.

"It does." He deliberated for a moment, listening.

"You'd best bring my boots and overcoat. Yours as well. And the gas masks."

They sat in the two chairs at the hearth, waiting, as prepared as they could be for a sudden and unwelcome foray down to the basement or under the stairs.

"What's that other sound, sir – the deeper sort of _'pom-pom'_ sound?"

"That's the Bofors guns at Castle Bromwich. Where the Spitfires are built."

"Oh."

"Longbridge, to the south-west, produces Lancasters and Hurricanes. The B.S.A. works are to the south of us, making armaments. The Kynoch works – chemicals and ammunition – are to the east. Fisher and Ludlow's bomb and shell-casing works are to the north; Nuffield's in Washwood Heath produces tanks... There are close on half a million people here directly employed in the war effort."

Sam stared at him with deepening concern as he listed off so many prime targets for the Luftwaffe bombers. She responded with the first word that came to mind.

"Blimey."

Foyle raised an eyebrow, but then a slow, ironic grin spread across his features. He nodded his head and repeated,

"Blimey."

Eventually Sam picked up the book as a distraction from the tension, and read out a passage that she particularly liked. He asked her to continue, and laid his head against the chair back, listening to her voice and the thudding noises in the distance. She glanced up occasionally and saw he had closed his eyes, however when she reached the end of the chapter he looked at her and smiled gently.

"Would you mind reading a little further?"

She turned the page and read on, until at last the worrisome outside noises ceased.

When she finished the chapter, he said quietly to her,  
"That was very pleasant, Sam, under the circumstances – better than another whisky. It hasn't tired you?"

"No, sir, not at all."

"Good. Well, until the Hun _do_ decide to force us out to shelter, good-night, Sam."

He made no move to rise from his chair.

"Can I help–?"

"No."

"You... you won't sleep there, will you, sir?"

"Good-night, Sam."

TBC...


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

It was Wednesday morning and Sam pulled over to park the Wolseley on Calthorpe Road, climbed out and walked along the pavement until she came to the newsagent's shop. Mr. Foyle had given her the street number, described the shop and the proprietor, and sent her off with the half-postcard. She felt a little odd about the errand, but the shopkeeper matched the two halves of the card together and did not hesitate to produce the briefcase, and even demurred at accepting the banknote until she assured him her boss would be displeased if she returned with it.

Back at the hotel, she found him ready to begin work, dressed in the other suit he had brought for the journey, but with waistcoat unbuttoned, sans necktie. Evidently Kenneth McKay had been up to offer his services, for the writing desk had been positioned in front of the wing chair near the hearth, and the remains of a light breakfast lay on a side table. She set his case on the desk.

"No difficulties, then?" He asked, munching gingerly on a piece of toast.

"None at all, sir. Though I must say I felt rather like a secret agent, handing over that bit of card…"

Foyle raised an eyebrow.  
"Well, it worked, didn't it?" he said very quietly as he lifted out the files and spread them over the desk. Sam saw that he winced with discomfort, lowering himself slowly and carefully into the chair in preparation to starting his work.

"How can I help, sir?"

"Just, _er_, don't disappear. You have your book, Sam? Help yourself to coffee."

He set to work, writing out his case notes on a long legal pad, reading from the files and consulting documents. He had been supplied with photographs of every member of the force, and he studied these minutely, some under a small magnifying lens. Sam listened to the steady scratch of his pen, and then grew curious when he switched to a pencil and began describing longer marks on the paper. On the pretence of taking away the breakfast tray, she glanced over his shoulder to see that he was making precise, detailed and draughtsmanlike sketches of a ring design, a distinctive cuff-link and a tiepin.

On her way down the stairs, she puzzled over the possible value of such seemingly inconsequential observations, but reserved judgement on his methods.

She made her way through the dining room to the kitchen, chatted with the cook and the young girl who served as maid-of-all-work, and carried a fresh pot of coffee up to his room - rather a luxury about which she did not inquire too closely.

As she entered, Foyle made a quick, furtive attempt to hide the cigarette he had just lit, but then brought his hand up to the desktop, defying her to remark upon it. With as neutral an expression as she could muster, she set a cup of coffee before him wordlessly and went back to her book.

He examined the broken torch and the folding knife and entered notes into his report; he dispatched her downstairs to borrow the telephone directory. On her way back she stopped at her room and picked up the knitting she had begun in Hastings. Looking over at the book open beside her on the settee, her hands worked the pins as the strand of wool running up from the cloth bag on the floor transformed into a small jumper for a cousin's child.

Foyle glanced up and paused, surprised to see her engaged in such a home-centred activity in what he had come to regard as his office. He frowned at his papers for a moment, then continued writing and searching through various documents in his files.

Sam found herself more and more impressed with his powers of concentration and his attention to details, however she could not dispel her doubts as to the content of his report – what on earth could he have learned from a violent encounter with three thugs in a dark lane?

Foyle worked on as he ate the simple luncheon of sandwiches, tea and biscuits she had arranged to have sent up. While reviewing some points in his own notes, he sat back in the chair and smoked a second cigarette contemplatively. Finally he stubbed it out, checked the time on his wristwatch and spoke to her.

"Sam, I'll need to send you out to do some leg work for me."

"Certainly, sir. I'm always glad to be useful."  
She rose and came to stand before the desk.

"Know you are, Sam." He gave her a weary but grateful smile.  
"Here's a list of offices to visit – I have the addresses from the directory – and I've noted down the information I need. Any questions?"

She read down the list, frowned a little at the second-to-last, and shook her head.  
"No, it's quite straight-forward, sir._ Er_ – this one is a jeweller's, is it?"

"Yes, take these sketches with you; they should be able to identify that ring design and confirm its origin – or send you on to someone who can."

"And, for these offices... I really have no credentials to show if anyone should ask. What name shall I mention?"

"Well, don't think mine will carry any weight – shouldn't mention it in any case – just say you're making inquiries for Chief Constable James, which you are, as my proxy."

"Very good, sir." She smiled brightly and turned to go.

"_Er_, hang on, Sam. I'll walk down with you." He got to his feet with evident strain, buttoned up his waistcoat, accepted her help with his jacket, and slipped his pen into his breast pocket. Tucking a file under his arm, he said,

"I have several phone calls to make."

Walking slowly on the stairs, Sam matched her pace to his while trying not to look like it. She saw him to the private telephone booth and said good-bye, but he had one last instruction for her.

"And Sam –? Do be back before six, whether you've finished the list or not. The Blackout here is, _er_, _very_ black."

"Right, sir."

After making his calls Foyle returned to his room, his energy depleted from the effort of climbing the stairs. He decided to give in to his fatigue; he hung his jacket over a chair and walked with halting steps to the bed to lie down. The ache in his side was persistent and sharp, aggravated with nearly every breath he took. He _had_ slept in the bed the previous night, despite Sam's apprehension, but had been kept awake until the small hours by worry over air-raids and by the pain. Now he rolled himself onto his right side and fell into an exhausted slumber almost immediately.

Two hours later, gazing desultorily at the ceiling, he was considering whether his motivation to get back to his report was stronger than his disinclination to inflame his various injuries, when there was a firm knock at the door. Foyle sighed and got himself onto his feet; he went as far as the bedroom doorway and called out a response. The elderly doctor walked in, beaming an encouraging smile.

"Back on your pins, Mr. Foyle? Jolly good. How do you do?" he held out his hand. "I don't suppose you remember me –."

"I remember your darning needle." Foyle eyed the man warily.

"Quite. Sorry about that, but it's deucedly difficult to get hold of anything like morphine, outside of the hospitals and the Army..."

Foyle smiled, stepped forward and they shook hands,  
"Not at all; it was very good of you to come. The whisky helped."

"I am essentially retired from practice, but in these times one must be ready at a moment's notice to help where one can."

"And I'm very grateful, Dr. Watson."

"Well, how are things healing? Were you able to sleep?"

As the doctor got his stethoscope out of his medical bag, Foyle scowled to himself and thought of a diversion.

"Air-raids last night were the main problem. Do you have any news as to where they struck?"

"I understand the Small Heath railyard was hit. Locomotives laying about like children's toys; buildings smashed; they're still finding bodies."

Foyle walked over to the desk, pulled out one of his maps and spread it open across his papers.  
"Which yard? This one here?"

The doctor abandoned his instruments and came to examine the map.

"Now, let me see... yes, that's the one. Take an interest in these things, do you, Mr. Foyle?"

"As much as the, _er_… Well, yes I do. Do you know the city well, Doctor? How long have you lived here?"

"Oh, some years now. I know it quite well. I would be pleased to help with any information I can supply you."

"Have a seat, Doctor."

Their conversation lasted for more than an hour, and Foyle found himself giving nearly as much information as he received. The old gentleman's keen interest and appreciation for the more obscure details of the investigation drew him to be far more communicative than was his usual practice. They sat opposite each other, the doctor on the settee with his pipe and Foyle on a chair with a cigarette between his fingers.

"Tell me, Mr. Foyle, what do you consider to be the one salient feature of interest in this case?"

Foyle smiled at the question.  
"Well, this is too great an opportunity to pass up, Dr. Watson; I'll turn the question back upon you – do you have anything to suggest?"

The elderly man beamed his approval and delight.  
"Hah! This does take me back, sir, indeed it does."

He thought for a few minutes, and then fixed his companion with a bright eye.  
"Why did they deliver the body to the police station?"

"Yes."

"Why not dispose of it somewhere else, away from the scene of the crime?"

"Go on."

"Would it not be to their advantage to delay the discovery of the murder?"

"Well, reverse that, Doctor: what was the advantage of ensuring the murder was discovered immediately?"

"Intimidation? A warning?"

"Perhaps. But what sort of warning?"

"Indeed…" The doctor scratched his head in puzzlement. Foyle took up the thread.

"M-might have been a warning... not to interfere with their plans. Do you see any difficulty with that?"

"Well, you say the Chief Constable claims to be unaware of the exact nature of the criminal business that is underway. He had no investigation in hand."

"Exactly."

"Then the warning was not to the Chief Constable – it must have been directed at someone else, someone who is aware of the criminal activity."

"One step further, Doctor – or, _erm_, the next 'link in the chain' –?" Foyle smiled.

"...To someone who is_ party_ to the crime. It was a warning not to expose them! Wait, no... that can't be it."

"Certainly a warning not to do... whatever the dead man did?" Foyle suggested, turning his head and raising an eyebrow.

"A falling out among thieves? Greed, then – the dead man wanted more than his share, perhaps. And there are further members at the station who are party to the crime!"

"That's the direction my thoughts are running. And if you've found your way along the same path, then perhaps we can't be too far afield, Doctor."

The elderly man sat back in his seat with an air of satisfaction.

"Excellent, sir! Allow me to thank you for this most invigorating exchange by offering you a drink – nearly as difficult to come by as morphine, but I have better sources for this commodity. No, no, don't get up; the less movement to those ribs of yours, the sooner they will heal."

He fetched two glasses, retrieved his medical bag and lifted out another bottle; Foyle noted that it was quite a decent scotch.

"Tell me, Mr. Foyle, with whom do you usually discuss your cases – talk out your theories...?"

"My sergeant – chap called Milner – good man, capable man; and, _er_... my driver, oddly enough. Unavoidable, I suppose."

"Miss Stewart?"

"Yes. She, _er_... takes an interest; bit too enthusiastic. Occasionally offers unexpected insights."

"A canny young woman."

"Canny? How so?"

"Steady, bright, loyal; don't you find her so?"

Foyle shrugged noncommittally,  
"She's young. There have been a... number of suitors... distractions."

"I don't doubt it."

"One of them's bound to take her away." He finished with a tone of inevitability, smiling,

"...and I'll have to find another driver."

He took a swallow of whisky.

A couple of drinks later and the doctor was in a philosophical mood.

"I did not feel it at the time, but in later years I truly regretted that I had not made more of an effort to break through his natural reserve. You see, I really was his only friend, the one person close enough to him to see the heart beyond the brain, the feeling soul hidden within the extraordinary reasoning machine. I believe, now, that I did him a disservice not to have taken that bold and perhaps intrusive course..."

The doctor turned his eye upon the detective.

"I hope you will forgive me, Mr. Foyle, for taking what you may well think an intrusive course now. My life is at its close, and I find it impossible not to speak and to act when it seems right to me.

"It is clear that you pursue your work with determination, dedication and self-sacrifice. You enjoy the challenge, the puzzle and the process of investigation. Holmes used to say, _'L'oeuvre, c'est tout'_. But for you, that was never the case, am I not correct?"

Foyle, discomfited, chewed the inside of his lip before answering,

"Well, a man has his hobbies, something to take his mind off his work..."  
He lifted the whisky glass balanced on his knee, frowned at the drink, and set it down again untasted.

Watson continued in a voice of quiet understanding,

"You are... discontented; you question the value of your efforts on the home front, and in your thoughts you dwell on the futility of it all.

"That remembrance you keep round your neck – your late wife's ring? Is it a comfort to you, Mr. Foyle, or has it become, perhaps, a sort of penance?"

Foyle looked away, unwilling to answer.

"You may well feel your work has become burdensome to you, for you have lost that strengthening core around which a man, a whole man, centres his life. Holmes never had it; he became... hollow. You... had it once. You must find that centre and that support again, Mr. Foyle."

He glanced pointedly towards Sam's open book, coffee cup and the nearly completed knitting, a small study in domesticity on the side table.

"It may be nearer to you than you know – it may only require... that you reach out your hand to accept it."

He met Foyle's troubled eyes for just a moment, then gazed upwards and declared,

"_I_ am able, now, to look back with some contentment over a full and, I hope, useful life. But I will tell you this, Mr. Foyle: it is not the triumphs, the defeats, nor even the satisfaction of a duty fulfilled and a job well done that remain prominent in the mind. It is the memory of those who loved us and whom we loved. My first wife, my first love, Mary, died very young. For many years I believed I could never love another as I loved her. But I was wrong. My love for Violet was equally strong, as was hers for me. It was not the same, it could not be the same; I was a different man. But our time together was a true blessing. Had I not allowed myself to love again, how small would be my store of memories now?"

TBC...


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

In the grounds of the hotel, Sam sat behind the wheel of the Wolseley as the daylight faded, looking over the notes she had added to Mr. Foyle's list. There were not as many as she would have hoped. Four hours of finding her way through the city, driving from address to address, politely asking strangers for information they had little interest in - or were downright suspicious of - giving to her. She had used all her tact and diplomatic skills, only invoking the name of the Chief Constable as a last resort, but the whole endeavour had rapidly deteriorated into an exercise in frustration.

_Why on earth would anyone want to do this for a living?_

Of course, it would have been easier if she could simply have said she was a police officer and, to some extent, compel them to answer.

But what was the value of these odd little details, anyway? How could these seemingly trivial observations add up to solid evidence that would help him to solve the case?

Clearly this was all he had to go on, under the circumstances.

If only Milner had been here, they might together have been able to pursue the investigation on Mr. Foyle's behalf in the thorough manner and up to the usual high standards of the DCS.

Still, she wished she could have done more, brought him more than the little she had managed to find out. Shaking her head sadly, she pushed open the car door, climbed out wearily, and walked with downcast eyes through the entrance.

"Miss Stewart!"  
Kenneth McKay smiled and came forward to speak with her, switching to a mock confidential tone,

"Have you been out on Official Police Business? A successful _sortie_, I hope –? Oh dear."

McKay's manner abruptly changed to one of deep concern as Sam's eyes filled with tears and she turned away.

"Sam...? Come with me; come into my office. I'll get you a cup of tea."

"No, I must go up, I should..."

"Let me see you to your room, then. What's this all about?"

McKay signalled the maid to bring tea and led Sam upstairs with a protective arm around her shoulders. As they passed Foyle's door she was apologising for her breakdown in a voice punctuated by teary gasps.

Inside, Sam paced around the room, sniffling and speaking in hiccoughs as her crying jag subsided,

"There's such dreadful devastation out there, and the people just _keep on_ – they pick themselves up in the rubble of their bombed houses and they go back to work!

"I tried to get the information, but there were so many obstacles...

"It's just that this all seems so – I mean, I spoke to a man in Hockley who was carrying on in his jeweller's shop; it was the only shop left standing in the entire street. He wore a black mourning band, and I was meant to ask him if he remembered making a cufflink, or if he could tell me who had made it. I just wish I understood how this could possibly be of any importance!"

Just then the maid brought the tea and Sam went to stand at the window to regain her composure. When the girl had gone McKay spoke to her sympathetically,

"Surely he will explain it to you, Sam?"

Settling onto the sofa, Sam dried her eyes with her handkerchief.

"He never says, when he's in the middle of an investigation. He keeps all the facts to himself – he knows what's important and what isn't, and _he_ asks the questions..." She dropped her hands in her lap and shook her head doubtfully,

"But in this case... a cuff-link? A ring? If these are the only clues... Why should he send me out to bother these poor people over such trifles?"

"It sounds as if you've lost confidence in your Mr. Foyle."

"No, I... I just feel there's a problem at the moment – he's really not himself. Oh, I shouldn't be telling you this – I've spoken out of turn."

At the side table he fixed her tea and handed over the cup.

"Mum's the word, Sam. Don't worry."

"It's very kind of you, Kenneth. I'm foolish to fall apart like this."

"Not at all. You've had a trying time of it."

He hesitated a moment, then asked,

"Tell me, is Mr. Foyle married?"

Sam slowly raised her eyes to him, reluctant to share her boss's private history.

"N-no, a widower."

"Oh, I see."

"Why do you ask?"

"Been on his own very long?"

"Well, his wife died ten years ago. It's ten years ago this month, actually."

McKay thought for a moment before asking,  
"Do you think there could be a connection? With all this?"

"I _have_ wondered... You see, his son once said to me that his father keeps everything in separate boxes, and – well, I wondered..."

"Perhaps... one or two of those boxes have broken open?"

Sam turned away, discomfited. After a moment she lifted her chin and said resolutely,

"Well, I hope he's able to sort things out soon – this investigation can't begin properly until–-."

A quiet knock at the door brought a sudden feeling of guilty self-consciousness and she looked at McKay worriedly. She crossed the room and answered through the unopened door; it was Mr. Foyle.

"Sam? Is everything alright?"

"Y-yes. Yes, sir."

"Sure?"

"Yes. I'll be there in–- I'll just be five minutes."

Foyle heard her response and stood a moment at the closed door. He knew McKay was with her – he had no difficulty with that; he was a trustworthy young man. What concerned him was his certainty that she had been weeping when she passed his door.

He returned to his room, gazed out the window at the fading light on the autumn foliage of the hotel grounds, and analysed his reaction to the incident. Foremost was his immediate concern as to what had upset her, but he could not ignore the persistent question in his mind – _Why had she not come to him in her distress? _

Instead she had accepted the comfort and support of a man she had met only three days ago.  
More than that:_ why should he have such a strong feeling of disappointment?_

With a short rap on the door Sam came into the room and he saw the evidence of her recent emotion – red-rimmed eyes and a tenderness of expression around the mouth that could easily dissolve into weeping with little provocation.

Nevertheless, she flashed a small brave smile and took a seat on the sofa at his invitation; he sat beside her in order to look over the papers in her hands. As she spoke she indicated each note with an index finger, but kept her head down, only glancing up as she concluded each point. Foyle watched her with a concerned sympathy, meeting her eye each time she looked at him.

"...I couldn't get to this office at all. The whole area was blocked off. A barrage balloon was down; the cable was strung across the road, lying over the trolley bus wires and the roofs of the buildings. An RAF lorry was there and the men were hauling the cable in with a drum winch. But it looked as if it would take them a long time – trying to do as little damage as possible, I suppose."

"Right. Well, couldn't be helped, Sam."

"I could try again tomorrow, if you like."

"No, no. That's not nec- , it's alright."

"I'm afraid_ this office_ just isn't there anymore, sir. Completely bombed; I couldn't find anyone to tell me where it had relocated."

"Oh. I'm sorry – I should have expected that."

"This office is currently removing their records to an underground facility and can't assist with enquiries until next month. And ...at_ this office_, the person I should speak with has taken leave – she just received word her husband was killed at Alam Halfa."

She paused to steady her voice, her chin trembling.

"The rest is all the information I was able to confirm. You can transfer the notes straight into your report."

She passed the paper to him as if she were glad to be done with it; he took it from her hand, waited for her to look up, but she did not. Foyle read through the neatly handwritten entries she had made below each of his block-printed items.

"You've done very well, Sam. Sorry you had to contend with so many difficulties..."

She only nodded and made a little throat-clearing noise.

"Sam..." Foyle scratched his head distractedly, "I'm sorry, I have to ask. Why... didn't you come to_ me_? If you were upset...?"

"Well, ...not very professional, sir. It was nothing, just frustration, really."

"That's perfectly understandable."

"Still..." She shifted uncomfortably.

"Sam, you don't have to – I mean, don't feel you have to keep–. _Erm_..."

Words failed him; he shook his head slightly, searching for a way to say what he meant. Sam sat impassively with her hands clasped together on her lap.

Foyle studied her profile a moment, and then put his hand over hers.  
"Well, I'm sorry..."

It was a calculated move: he knew he had never touched her before like this; in fact he was sure he had never touched her at all – ...except in that moment just before the bomb landed on The Bell pub; oh, and on the journey here when she had been unwell and he had taken her arm; and yesterday evening when he had apologised for his thoughtless remark – But otherwise, never; not when her billet had been destroyed, certainly not when she had stayed several days at his house, not when they had seen Andrew off together as he left for Debden, not even as she lay recovering from illness in hospital.

His calculation extended only so far as to try to elicit a reaction – some data that he might ponder over later – he didn't understand the reason for her coolness towards him; in fact, he wasn't exactly sure what he was apologising for.

"I'm quite all right now, sir. It was just – it was nothing."

She ignored his hand completely, so he removed it, continuing to watch her with a troubled expression.

"If you don't mind, sir, I'm rather tired and –."

"Sam. Come down to the dining room. You must be hungry."

"_Er_, certainly, yes. I'll just, _erm_, freshen up first." She looked at him sideways.

Entering the dining room, Foyle felt the eyes of other guests upon him. He smoothed the back of his hair as he took his seat at the table for two, assuming they were merely curious to see a stranger amongst them. During dinner he and Sam managed to sustain enough conversation not to feel awkward, but Foyle was quite aware that she was making an effort at it.

Over a cup of tea he mentioned,  
"I've spoken with Chief Constable James, and asked him to meet with me _here_ tomorrow morning, rather than the Bishopsgate office. We'll know better how to proceed after I make my initial report."

"Right. Well, that shouldn't take long." She said lightly.

Foyle, taken aback, stared at her, his cup raised over the saucer.  
"Pardon?"

"Your report – it shouldn't take very long."

He set down the cup carefully and tilted his head.  
"Why do you say that, Sam?"

"Well, under the circumstances... and you've not been able to get out to make proper enquiries, conduct interviews..."

"Proper enquiries. I see. Do you think I'd waste the man's time, Sam?"

"No, sir, it's just – I'm sure you'll have better success when you are able to get out."

Foyle knew by the earnest way she looked at him that she was serious. In fact, she was offering to commiserate with him – perhaps she was pitying him.

He quelled a sudden rush of anger – an inappropriate response to his young subordinate – but he was astonished that she should so underestimate him.

_What did she think he'd been writing all day? Did she not understand the importance of the information she'd collected for him?_

Foyle planted an elbow on the table and stroked his mouth with his hand, deciding whether or not to say anything in response, but then he felt the welt of the cut over his lip, remembered the lacerations on his brow, the yellowing purplish bruises on his jaw and around his eye. He looked down, now uncomfortably aware of how he must appear, and still angry at Sam's remark.

He folded his napkin and tossed it onto the table.  
"I'm going upstairs. Are you ready?" He asked curtly.

"_Er_... I'll just finish my..." She looked up at him, surprised.

"Fine. Be in my office–." He shut his eyes in annoyance at his mistake,

"Please be in my rooms at nine in the morning."

He rose and walked out, hearing a meek and bewildered 'Yes, sir,' behind him.

Alone in his sitting room Foyle stood at the hearth looking sombrely into the orange-red flames of the coal fire. He acknowledged that he was, in fact, hurt by her words, hurt and also disappointed in himself – had he really lost her confidence?

Glancing up he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror over the mantelpiece and glared at the face that bore the bruises and fading cuts of the beating.

_Christ, no wonder she had doubts about his competence... _

What was the saying? – 'No man is a hero to his valet.' But she was not his valet, she was not merely his driver either – she had become a colleague, part of his team, and if he had lost her respect... then he didn't deserve to command.

He slapped his hand decisively on the mantel.  
No, she simply didn't understand. She did not have all the facts.

And it was now vitally important to him that she attend the meeting with the Chief Constable in the morning.

TBC...


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

At ten minutes before nine Sam knocked on Mr. Foyle's door but received no answer. In a flash of fear she imagined that Monday night's events had somehow been repeated and she burst into his room, but merely found it empty. Realising her folly, she pulled herself together and went down the stairs in search of him. Just before turning towards the dining room, she overheard his voice coming from the enclosed telephone booth.

He sat within the small chamber, a file of papers spread over the inadequate table surface and his knee, rapidly writing notes and talking animatedly into the receiver, which he held wedged between his ear and shoulder. She caught his eye and he smiled and lifted an index finger to signal that she should wait.

"Morning, Sam. Had breakfast?" he asked, standing in the doorway of the booth.

"Yes, sir. Ready when you are."

"Good. I'm expecting a return call so I'll hang on here, but don't wander off." He smiled and went back to his notes, then the telephone trilled and he closed the door and took the call.

Up in the sitting room together, Sam thought her boss looked tired, as if he had slept badly, and yet there was an unmistakable current of restrained energy in his movements. She could see by the open files on the desk, now moved near the window, and several additional pages of notes that Foyle had been at work for some time already.

"Let's just discuss this meeting, then, Sam. Help me bring this chair forward; I want the Chief Constable here. I would like you there, on the sofa. I have quite a lot of information to go through with the Chief and it is important that he hear it in order and that there be no interruptions. Can you make sure of that, Sam?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good."

"And what am I to do, sir, during the meeting?"

"You don't have to do anything except _be here_, and respond as best you can if I should ask you to clarify anything about your travels yesterday. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly."

"Thank-you."

Somehow she couldn't imagine what points she'd need to clarify, but she went dutifully to speak to the staff, while Mr. Foyle continued to organise his papers.

* * *

"Thank-you for agreeing to the change in venue, Chief Constable. This is my driver, Miss Stewart. I've asked her to sit in with us because she's contributed to the information gathered in this investigation, and is able to offer clarification on certain points."

Sam greeted the police chief smartly, took her place on the sofa as Foyle had instructed, and turned her attention to the two high-ranking officers. However, she had failed to see the silent exchange between the two men after the Chief ran his gaze over her figure; he had raised an appreciative and knowing eyebrow at Foyle, who had only stared coldly in response.

The Chief was a large, gruff man with an impressive sandy-coloured moustache and a northern accent. He cleared his throat in slight embarrassment before speaking,

"Now, Foyle, on the phone you told me you'd met with an accident. This is no accident: you look as if you'd had the stuffing knocked out of you."

Foyle waved the Chief into the chair positioned in front of the writing desk.

"Yes. Well. Hampered my investigation somewhat, but I do have certain information for you."

He took the chair behind the desk, with his back to the window, careful to disguise any sign of discomfort from his injuries.

"No, no – I insist that you tell me, Foyle. How did this happen?"

He frowned irritably at his papers but answered matter-of-factly,

"I was followed, after I left our meeting Monday evening."

"Followed?"

"You hadn't noticed them? Two men followed me from Bishopsgate, and later a third joined them. I'll give you their names in due course."

"You know who they are?"

"I do now. Miss Stewart brought me confirmation of their identities yesterday."

Sam did her best not to react to this piece of news, but she was growing uneasy as to what he might expect her to say.

"In due course, you say... Well," the Chief sighed with fatigue,

"I'm afraid I've got you up here needlessly, Foyle. I've kept this appointment with you merely as a courtesy."

"Oh, how's that, sir?"

"The bombing raids, night before last; took out nearly one-sixth of my men, in several different locations. Whatever crime or corruption I've put you onto seems almost irrelevant in light of this catastrophe."

"Ah. Well, I'm very sorry for your loss, sir." Foyle dragged his fingers across his forehead. "You believe the men involved in the murder and the criminal activity have been... eliminated?"

"As I said to you on Monday, my suspicions tended towards those three I told you of. They were amongst the dead at Moseley. However, there is one thing..."

"Yes?"

"It would seem that two of my men were away from their posts that night."

"Not on your authority."

"No. Generally these two were at Gravelly Hill."

"But they were at Small Heath."

The Chief raised his eyebrows in surprise,

"Yes."

"Armoury Road area?"

"How did you know that?"

"The railyard near the BSA munitions works?"

"What do you know, Foyle?" He asked darkly.

"I know nothing definite, but there are enough facts that you can see how they're likely linked together."

"What facts? If you were followed and attacked Monday evening, and have been laid up here ever since... what could you possibly have in the way of facts?"

Sam looked down uncomfortably at her hands folded in her lap, as Foyle pressed on.

"Much of it comes from what you've supplied me with, and, combined with evidence we've collected here – if you'll bear with me – I think I can lay before you enough information to form a reasonable hypothesis as to the truth behind the murder of Constable Rees."

"Very well. Go on."

"Thank-you. Let's begin with what happened Tuesday night, during the Air Raid."

Foyle had his documents and files arranged in the order he would need them. He spread out the small scale Ordnance Survey map and put it before the Chief.

"If you'll look over this map, you'll see that the bombers flew north and northeast in two waves. They struck in a northeast line hitting Acocks Green, Tysley, Alum Rock and Ward End; and they struck in a northerly line hitting Moseley, Balsall Heath and Digbeth. There was only one hit between these two vectors."

"Small Heath."

"Yes. All the other hits were high explosive bombs or incendiaries. Only the Small Heath hit was a landmine."

"That wouldn't have been dropped by the Heinkels."

"Very unlikely."

Chief James sat back in his chair thoughtfully.

"It may've been left over from a previous air strike. Those mines get caught up in trees, on utility poles, lampposts; the parachutes catch, and sometimes the mine never explodes; bloody difficult for the UXB chaps. And then they go off unexpectedly."

"My driver interviewed the local ARP warden yesterday. What did you learn from Mr. Layzell, Miss Stewart?"

"That the entire area had been swept clean after the previous air raid on the night of September the fourth, sir."

"Thank-you, Miss Stewart. They're especially vigilant around the railways and the BSA, as you know, Chief Constable."

"Well, what are you suggesting, Foyle?"

"The landmine was brought to the location by people on the ground."

"What – Jerry spies? Saboteurs?"

"By your two men and their accomplices."

"To blow up the BSA? Don't be absurd."

"No, sir. The BSA wasn't their target; the mine exploded prematurely."

The Chief studied the DCS with a wary expression.

"All right, Foyle. Let me hear your hypothesis."

Foyle produced another map showing a series of dots and crosses in lines down the region, dated and annotated. He passed the map to the Chief Constable.

"You'll see the pattern has been repeated five times. On each occasion, on the night of a bombing raid, there's been an anomalous hit on a lone lorry carrying a shipment of BSA arms to the railyard. Each time the device was a landmine, but because of the general devastation, and the destruction caused by other landmines on those occasions, there were no suspicions raised over the destruction of a lorry. And, of course, the losses in the shipment couldn't accurately be accounted for."

Sam looked on with growing interest as Foyle handed over another paper.

"The BSA have confirmed that the lorries, on each of these occasions, were driven by the same two men. In each of the four previous hits, the driver and guard claim to have been thrown clear of the explosion and were relatively unhurt."

"I don't recognise either of these names."

"No? Well, we'll leave that for the moment. Amongst the files you sent to me were records of Rees's work in cases of important property damage and losses reported after these and other air raids. At first my thoughts had tended towards organised looting, but I found an intriguing coincidence."

He passed another page to the Chief.

"You'll note the names of the constables who reported the first four lorry hits."

Chief James read out from the list,

"Rees and Cartwright on the 12th of July at Yardley;

"Rees and Smith on 4th August at Selly Park;

"Rees and Bayliss on 20th August at King's Heath;

"Cartwright and Bayliss on 4th September at Hall Green." James returned the paper to the desk,

"This falls within their regular duties in the motor division – responding to bomb-damage incidents; often they are called out to assist."

"According to the records these were not call-outs; the constables reported, in each incident, that they had simply come upon the damaged lorry and the injured drivers in the course of the air raid patrol. There is no indication of assistance from the Home Guard or the ARP. Neither driver was ever taken to hospital or administered first aid – unusual if the lorries were supposed to have been driven over the mines, wouldn't you agree? Which two constables were killed at Small Heath?"

"Cartwright and Smith. There were other men dead at the scene. What was the coincidence?"

"Your Constable Alan Cartwright and one of the lorry drivers – both too old for military service this war – served together in the Great War."

"Did they?

"Yes, in a rather infamous campaign."

"How did you discover this?"

Foyle produced the sketch he had made of the ring.

"The third man I encountered Monday evening, whom the other two called George, wore this."

"A ring. What of it?"

"It's an original design that was commissioned for veterans of the Siege of Kut-Al-Amara, April 1916, in Mesopotamia."

"How the devil do you know that?"

"Well, the design was familiar to me, though I couldn't at first recall how. It was Miss Stewart who reminded me."

Sam, who had been following the discussion intently, was surprised to hear her name brought up again. And she knew that she hadn't found any useful information about the ring.

Foyle nodded in her direction,

"Yesterday, Miss Stewart happened to mention the Battle of Alam Halfa, Lieutenant-General Montgomery's recent victory against Rommel in North Africa. In the last war Montgomery had served under a Major-General Gorringe, who arrived on the Western Front in September 1916 to command the 47th Division. And it was Gorringe who had, in April of that year, led the disastrous attempt to relieve the British forces besieged by the Turks at Kut-Al-Amara."

The Chief gazed at Foyle with a quizzical expression before lowering his eyes to study the sketch,

"And when had you seen this design before?"

"I had once met a veteran of the campaign. In fact... I arrested him in 1920; he had just received the campaign medal and the DCM – as you may know it was a year or more after the end of the war before medals were given out – this man had just been given his medals, and also one of these rings by a former commander. But owing to the horrific memories associated with the siege, he had gotten drunk, disturbed the peace, and... I had to arrest him. But I listened to his story and he told me some of what had gone on there."

"An outright slaughter, from what I've heard – more than 20,000 killed? And why should this detail be so fixed in your mind, Foyle?"

"Oh, _er_... I was attached to the 47th Division for a time."

The Chief's eyebrows went up,

"Under Gorringe? Ever meet him?"

"Y-yes." Foyle's face was a study in restrained contempt.

"But I also met Montgomery."

"Saved you from shooting yourself in the leg, I'll wager. Well, what of this... ring? What did you make of it?"

"I made a phone call this morning to a friend at Whitehall who was able to search military records for veterans of the campaign. I gave him the names of these four constables and the two lorry drivers. Your constable Alan Cartwright and lorry driver George Collymore came up in the same regiment, as well as a Stan Bayliss."

"My constable is called Arthur Bayliss."

"Yes. Stan is his cousin, according to your desk sergeant at Gravelly Hill. Stan Bayliss had been an artillery and explosives expert, and according to his military dossier he stands six foot five and has lost the tip of the little finger on his right hand. One of the men who followed me, the one the other two called Stan, matches that description."

"Arthur's well over six feet himself."

"Stan... carried this torch Monday night." He laid the smashed torch on the desk.

"It appears to be a special issue to railway workers, but I haven't followed up on this detail as yet."

"Then it seems you were attacked by George Collymore, a BSA lorry driver, and Stan Bayliss, an ex-artilleryman and possible railway worker. Who was the other?"

"He was called Ray, and I believe he's the younger brother of George Collymore."

"Based on –?"

"Family resemblance; the fact that they were wearing identical waistcoats knit of the same wool," Foyle gave Sam a quick smile, "...suggesting a family connection; typical older brother/younger brother antagonism; and he didn't deny it when I suggested it to him. Ray also named Alan Cartwright as being involved."

"He admitted that? How on earth did you get him to tell you?"

"Well, clearly there was some discord in the ranks. Alan Cartwright and George Collymore seem to have been the leaders. Rees was murdered on 2nd September, two days before the fourth hit, either because he wanted more of the profit or he wanted out, and perhaps they feared he would turn them in.

"What they were doing was very dangerous, not to mention treasonous – Stan Bayliss and Ray Collymore certainly had regrets. George Collymore was still keen to carry on. It seems the plan was to stage the next hit in another week, but when they learned of this investigation they moved it forward to Tuesday night; perhaps the planning was rushed and that's why the mine exploded at the wrong location.

"It's impossible to know how _Smith_ felt about it, but it would seem he _did_ take part in the attempt on Tuesday night. As for Arthur Bayliss, you can interview him yourself. It would seem Rees's body was dropped behind the station as a warning to the others."

"To Smith and Arthur Bayliss – or would you say there are more of my men involved?"

"I've found no evidence of it."

"Where were they selling the arms?"

"I haven't investigated that far. No doubt Arthur Bayliss can tell you."

"Who murdered John Rees?"

"I believe it was George Collymore." Foyle set the broken knife and the triangular tip on the table.

"This is the knife he carried on Monday evening."

Foyle glanced self-consciously in Sam's direction and was surprised to note a striking change in her manner – she seemed withdrawn into herself as she frowned fixedly at the cap held on her knee. He forced his attention back to Cecil James.

"...According to the autopsy report, it is a likely match to the wounds on Rees's body."

"Collymore meant to kill _you_."

"Y-yes. That was his intention."

"Who prevented him?"

"It was Stan. Stan Bayliss."

The Chief glowered at the floor, deliberating over the information, and then looked Foyle in the face,

"I owe you more than an apology, Foyle; I had no idea of the scope, or the nature of the corruption. I should never have put you on to this alone – I should have provided you with some support."

"Well, perhaps."

"I'm sure this is not how you go about gathering evidence in Hastings..." he gestured to the knife, the broken torch and the bruises on Foyle's features.

"No, not usually. Can you tell me ..._who_ knew of our meeting on Monday?"

James ran a hand over his brow in obvious discomfort,

"I'm afraid it must have been Alan Cartwright."

"Must have been?"

"It was Cartwright. I admit I never suspected him."

"No. And in some sense, you owe an apology to the three men who died at Moseley; they had nothing to do with this."

The Chief Constable nodded regretfully.

"Was Cartwright, by any chance, a marksman? I noticed that Stan wore this," Foyle produced the sketch of the tie-pin.

"Miss Stewart spoke to a jeweller who identified it as the insignia of the Kingsbury Shooting Club."

"A marksman? Now that you mention it, I seem to recall hearing that he had been a sniper during the last war."

"I see. Ray Collymore seemed to suggest that it was Cartwright who recruited Stan, and if they were members of the same Shooting Club, and, given their war service together, that might partly explain his influence with him."

"You believe Stan Bayliss was a reluctant participant?"

Foyle was thoughtful before he responded.

"Well, I'd have to say that Stan impressed me as a clear-thinking and decisive man and, yes, definitely reluctant. Perhaps the first hit was meant to be a single incident, one that his conscience could accept, but because it was successful, George Collymore and Cartwright insisted on continuing…

"Well, this is only speculation, and probably not worth taking up more of your time, Chief Constable."

"Is there anything I can do for you, Foyle?"

"Would you let me know the names of the other men killed at Small Heath?"

"Of course, but, anything else? All your expenses will be taken care of, naturally, but clearly returning by car will be awkward – I could arrange air transport –."

"That's very good of you, Chief Constable, but not necessary." He smiled briefly,

"Glad to be of service, and, _er_, I'll submit a final reckoning from Hastings."

"Well, I am indebted to you for your work here."

The two men stood and shook hands and as Sam rose the Chief spoke to her.

"Well done, Miss Stewart. You would do well to stick with Mr. Foyle – work with him and learn from him, and you might consider making application to the force – we got our first two women in the CID in '37."

"I will, sir. thank-you, sir."

TBC...


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

At the Chief Constable's departure, Foyle paused after closing the door, hesitant to address whatever unfinished business remained between himself and his driver. He pulled out the packet of cigarettes, lit one and inhaled the smoke deeply before turning round.

"M-may I have one of those, sir?" Sam asked with a hopeful, collegial air.

But he slipped the pack into his jacket pocket, walked over to the writing desk, and answered casually,

"Certainly not; bad for your health."

She gazed after him, a little crestfallen.

"Well, that's that. We got through it."

He loosened his tie and unfastened his collar button, shrugged off his jacket and hung it over the chair,

"Suppose I may as well pack these away."

He tidied the papers into their files,

"Would you mind bringing my briefcase, Sam?"

She picked up his case on the floor under the other window, then stood thinking.

When he became aware of her preoccupied silence, Foyle tossed the files onto the desk again and propped an elbow on the top of the chair-back. He tilted his head and looked at her with an expression of mild exasperation, until she turned and he saw her face.

She was evidently wrestling with an inner dilemma, the telltale crease between her eyebrows, and he knew from past experience that he'd best keep an eye on her until she sorted herself out – she had a tendency to forget her surroundings.

He watched her approach slowly, head bent, brow still furrowed. As she came to stand close in front of him, Foyle put out the cigarette and straightened up.

Sam held the case in front of her like a shield.

"Mr. Foyle, I... I owe you an apology. I'm afraid I've made assumptions about you – about the way you conducted this case, and, well – I was completely wrong, obviously."

She glanced up, tearful and repentant.

"I'm sorry, sir. I should have known – I should have understood – that you knew what you were doing."

Foyle took the briefcase from her and set it on the desk, answering quietly,

"Well, Sam, your assumptions... weren't without some grounding in fact."

She looked at him, surprised, as he continued,

"_If_ an apology is needed, it's accepted, but..."

"Sir?"

He gave her a fleeting smile and rubbed his temple self-consciously.

"I... _should've_ gone out the back way."

Sam laid her hand on his arm and Foyle looked down at it.

"But... there's rather more to it than that, isn't there, sir?"

"...Suppose there is. Not certain I could put a name to it."

He covered her hand briefly with his, then shifted back a step, but she held him with a gentle pressure on his forearm.

Sam chose her words carefully, only glancing up when she found the courage,

"M-my father says that... when one loses someone... one may feel a tremendous sense of guilt, along with everything else, and... that the feeling returns from time to time, unexpectedly... My father says when _a good person_ feels this sense of guilt, they may seek punishment of some sort – through self-denial or..."

"Recklessness?"

"Yes."

He turned away, lips compressed in a straight line, re-sorted the files on the desk, and asked quietly,

"Irrational, is it?"

"No, sir, it's just ...human."

She saw him bow his head and shut his eyes.

Seeing his discomfort, Sam moved away and found a task to busy herself with; she gathered up his damaged clothing from the hearth and began folding it neatly at one end of the sofa.

Foyle sensed her move off, and stared down at the papers. He knew that her words – or rather the words of her father – were true; he felt their truth in his heart. He _had_ felt guilt, for so many reasons – the renewed guilt and pain of losing Rosalind that he'd experienced while watching over Sam at the hospital; guilt over this wish to escape from Hastings before the anniversary date..._ His hand instinctively went up to rest over the knot of his tie, his fingers traced the small circle of gold that lay beneath his shirt..._ And guilt over these _other_ feelings he could no longer deny – a kind of weariness with grief, and a longing for some... brightness, some... happiness. Yes.

He looked over at Sam, watched her valiantly try to restore some small order to the chaos he had brought into his life, and considered the effect all this must have had upon her.

He knew now how much he valued her loyalty, her faith in him, and her regard, and despite the disconcerting circumstances, he had been moved by her kindness, by the genuine care and concern she had shown for him.

And it seemed to him now that, for these three or four days they had spent together, his conversation had entirely consisted of either apologising to her for _his _actions, or thanking her for_ hers_.

With a decisive gesture he cleared all the files off the table and thrust them into the briefcase, closed it and locked it.

He pushed his hands deep in his trouser pockets, walked round the desk and crossed the floor to stand beside her; she was examining his overcoat - the damage done to the fabric.

Sam turned, a little surprised to find him so near.

"_Er_ – it may be possible to salvage this."

He nodded, gazing at the torn cloth, and bit the inside of his cheek. She held up the coat as she folded it and, shaking her head regretfully, pronounced,

"We'll just have to 'Make do and mend,' sir."

Suddenly struck by a thought, she bent to lay the overcoat down carefully and, rising, dared to meet his eyes. With a tone of gentle urging she said quietly,

"_'Make do and mend.'_"

Foyle went quite still, and they regarded one another for a moment, until an affectionate smile softened the lines of worry from his eyes.

"I will, Sam. I promise."

Pleased at his sincerity, and a little self-conscious at his regard, she blushed,

"Jolly good, sir."

The End.


End file.
